The Christmas Spirit
by Noxbait
Summary: Season 1. After an exhausting hunt involving dueling poltergeists, the boys find themselves completely broke and almost out of gas in Arizona on Christmas Eve. To make matters worse, Dean's sick and Sam isn't doing much better. It seems destined to be the worst Christmas ever until a Christmas miracle changes everything.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! Merry Christmas! This story has been nagging at me for awhile and since i feel like something is missing when I'm not posting stories, I decided now was a good time to publish this one. Set sometime after Phantom Traveler, so nice and early in season one. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>Two AM, Christmas Eve 2005<em>  
><em>Arizona<em>

Sam knew that he had only about a minute and a half left before he was going to be discovered. His pulse was pounding loudly in his ears and, despite the stale air conditioning, he was sweating. Looking around, Sam breathed a little easier when he saw he was still alone. For the moment. Staring at the labels, he sighed. Deciphering Latin exorcisms would be easier than trying to make sense out of this mess. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his eyes. Of course that was the moment when she found him.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was as chipper and perky as the strains of the Chipmunks singing the Christmas Song in the background.

Blinking against the heat and exhaustion, Sam turned to his left and saw the clerk smiling at him. He motioned to the shelves and said, "Um...I guess. I'm not sure..."

"There's a ton of options." She rolled her eyes and said, "I know it can be a bit overwhelming."

Sam nodded, glancing at the shelves again. "I'm not sure what I need..."

"Cold or flu?"

"Um..."

"Symptoms?" The clerk tried again. "Cough? Fever? Nausea?"

"Yeah...and vomiting." Sam grimaced.

She frowned, "Ok. We'll you're gonna need..." Her hands started moving and before he knew what had happened, Sam had a basket full of medicine. She pointed down the aisle, "And you better get some Gatorade or something. Soup. Maybe some crackers."

Sam followed her wordlessly through the deserted store. He was relieved that she seemed to know what she was doing and that she was friendly at least. But her constant talking and the jingling of bells on the radio was making his head throb double time. After what seemed like forever, she finally led him to the register and Sam had never been so grateful to be near a door. The small town drugstore, overly bright for the middle of the night, seemed threatening after spending the better part of a week dealing with a couple of enthusiastic poltergeists.

"Sir?"

"What?" Sam looked up from the counter, realizing all his purchases were neatly bagged and the clerk was holding out her hand. He fumbled for his wallet and handed her a stack of bills without even counting. There was no point in counting. It was every last dollar they had.

"Thanks." Her smile wavered just a bit as she looked at the bills. She chewed her lip, counted them twice, then said, "I'm afraid you didn't quite give me enough..."

"Oh."

"By ten dollars and twenty cents."

Sam swallowed hard, looked at the bags of items and back at the clerk. He didn't have another penny in his pocket, let alone ten dollars and twenty cents. He said, "I...I don't have that. Can we just take back some of the, uh, some of it?"

She blinked at him, still chewing her lip as Nat King Cole crooned in the background and a semi went roaring by outside. Studying him for a long moment, she said, "There isn't exactly anything pointless that you bought, you know. Just food and medicine. And you look like you feel awful..."

"No, I'm ok, it's my brother who's sick..." Sam tried to explain, studying the bags, attempting to figure out what he could do without.

Dean had sent him out to get some food since they literally had only one granola bar left between them. He hadn't sent him to get medicine and Sam knew he was going to hear all about the frivolous purchases when he got back. They had less than a quarter tank of gas and he was spending their last bit of cash on food and medicine. Dean was going to kill him.

He felt trapped and, truth be told, a bit scared. Hating the desperation in his voice, Sam said, "I can just put back some of the...some of it. I don't have any more money."

"Hey."

He looked down and saw her hand on his. His eyes met hers and she said, "It's ok. Look, I've got some cash on me and I'll cover it."

"No, I can't let you..."

"It's done, ok?" She grinned and patted his hand, then straightened up and pushed the bags toward him. "It's not like you overspent on a bunch of cigarettes and liquor. You're out buying medicine for a sick brother on Christmas eve. That's got Christmas spirit written all over it. Helping you out is the least I can do."

Sam nodded slowly, relief flooding him, and smiled. "I really appreciate it."

She beamed at him, "Just think of me as one of Santa's elves." The clerk slid a package of peppermint candy canes into the last bag and winked, "They're complimentary. Tis the season and all."

"Thanks. For everything." Sam said, gathering up the bags.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too." He smiled and headed for the door.

* * *

><p>"Dean?" Sam called out as he walked into the motel room they'd been holed up in for the past six days. "You still alive?"<p>

He heard gut-wrenching vomiting from the bathroom and decided that was the best answer he was going to get. Sam unpacked the bags and spread out the medicine, crackers and bottles of Gatorade on the rickety table. From the sounds of it, Dean wasn't going to be likely to try to swallow anything at this point. Sam looked at the medicine and squinted at the labels, regretting not grabbing some Tylenol. Not that they had money for that. Squeezing his eyes closed, Sam rubbed his forehead and wished the shabby motel had air conditioning. Arizona in December might have been a Snowbird's dream destination, but it was a little warm for his taste. December was supposed to involve snow.

Of course, December was also supposed to involve holiday spirit, family and friends.

Instead of holiday festivities, though, it was two AM on Christmas eve and they were basically stranded in an abandoned motel twenty miles north of the nearest town. He'd spent the last of their money, and some of the clerk's money. While he hadn't exactly had any plans for Christmas, this wasn't exactly a happy alternative. Before they'd arrived in town, he had started to feel like maybe this Christmas wouldn't be as awful as the last few years had been. It sucked to be alone on Christmas and maybe this year he and Dean could at least get some take out and watch a game together. It was better than being alone again. Tears burned against his closed eyes as his thoughts inevitably drifted back to Jessica.

"Sam?"

Dean's hoarse voice drew his attention from his dismal thoughts. Opening his eyes and turning, Sam had to put out a hand to the wall to keep from falling over. Must have taken a harder hit on the head then he'd realized when he'd tumbled down the back steps of the house one of the poltergeists had been haunting. Steadying himself, Sam headed toward the bathroom. The door was open and Dean was still hunched over the toilet. Exactly where he'd left him when he'd run to the store for supplies.

"Dean?"

His brother looked up, face drawn and grey. Dean swallowed hard a few times then asked, "You have enough?"

"Not quite." Sam answered, leaning against the door frame. "Clerk covered the rest. Said it was in the spirit of Christmas."

"Hmm." Dean grunted, then raised an eyebrow, "She cute?"

Sam smiled, "How do you know the clerk was a she?"

Dean narrowed his eyes and said, "She was, wasn't she?"

"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention." Sam said, reaching for a washcloth and running it under some cold water. "I was trying to figure out what to buy so you'd stop puking and heating this place up with your fever."

"I'm too cold to be heating anything up." Dean groaned, reaching for the washcloth and attempting to straighten. He made it a few inches, before lowering his head back towards the toilet.

Sam waited expectantly, but Dean managed not to throw up again. And he looked rather proud of himself when he straightened up and ran the washcloth over his face. After a moment, Dean tossed the washcloth back at Sam, flushed the toilet, and started dragging himself to his feet. Sam grabbed his arm as he wavered unsteadily on his swollen and sore ankle.

"I'm fine." Dean pulled his arm away and limped toward the sink, reaching for his toothbrush; he put all his weight on his left leg to avoid pressure on the one he'd twisted running for his life from a very ticked off ghost earlier in the day.

"Sure." Sam said, keeping one hand ready in case Dean realized he wasn't fine.

Dean had been feeling sick ever since they'd arrived in town to hunt the poltergeists. But he'd pushed through, as always, and it was only this evening, after everything was over, that the flu or whatever, had won out over his stubbornness. Shaking his head, Sam found the movement didn't agree with his aching head and he slammed his eyes closed against the brightness of the vanity lights. Even as dim and dirty as they were, they were aggravating his ever-increasing headache.

"Sam?" Dean asked around his toothbrush. "You alright?"

Nodding, Sam kept his eyes squeezed closed. He reached out and grabbed the edge of the counter as a rush of warmth and dizziness swept over him. Concentrating on his breathing, Sam couldn't quite make out what his brother was saying, but he sounded concerned. Wanting to tell Dean to just give him a minute, Sam realized he didn't dare speak. Because he had the terrible feeling that if he did speak, he was going to lose everything in his suddenly unsettled stomach. Vaguely, he heard the sink shut off and felt Dean's hand gripping his arm, shaking him.

That slight movement was enough to send him stumbling for the toilet, throwing up his supper; probably lunch too. Groaning, he coughed and choked on the hot, nasty mess as it came up. Eyes closed again, Sam pressed a hand to his head as he threw up. Breathing and moving had been irritating enough to his bruised ribs and throbbing head, throwing up was an entirely different kind of hell.

Something cold and wet was pressed against the back of his neck. It felt like heat had been turned up to a hundred degrees in the smelly little bathroom and the cold washcloth helped take it down by a few degrees. Still unable to lift his head for fear he'd end up missing his target the next time his stomach decided to reject more of its contents, Sam tried to slow his breathing and regain some control.

"This could be a problem, you realize?" Dean said, readjusting the washcloth on Sam's neck.

Sam moaned and let his head rest on his forearm, not daring to open his eyes yet to look at Dean. He heard his brother moving and realized he had sat down on the nasty linoleum next to him, back against the sink. Still unable to speak, Sam just waited for his brother to continue.

Dean's laugh sounded strained as he said, "We're gonna have to coordinate so we take turns puking up our guts. Gonna get busy in here I think..."

Sam would have hit him, but he couldn't do anything except raise his head and start throwing up his breakfast. He felt a hand pat him on the shoulder. Opening one eye, Sam glared at Dean and saw both amusement and misery in his brother's eyes. Sam had the distinct feeling that Dean wasn't kidding. As if to confirm his suspicion, Dean spoke up again, voice ragged.

"Seriously, Sammy. It's your turn now, but you gotta wrap that up soon because I can't promise I'm going to be able to miss your head..."

Sam just groaned and threw up again.

It was going to be the worst Christmas ever.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! :) <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! Thanks to all who have read chapter one, and those of you who took the time to drop me a review! Glad you enjoyed. **

**Hope you enjoy chapter two. Things definitely aren't looking much better for our poor boys...**

* * *

><p><em>0345 AM Christmas Eve<em>

Dean woke up, as he so often found himself doing in the last couple of months, to the sounds of his brother screaming Jessica's name. For a moment, Dean couldn't get his eyes to open. They felt like they were weighed down by hundred pound weights and the oppressive heat of a thousand suns. Groaning, he lifted a heavy hand and ran it over his face. Blinking slowly, he got his eyes opened enough to see the stained paint of the bathroom wall across from him. Took him a minute, but everything came flooding back in a rush.

Poltergeists. Nearly a week spent researching, hunting for bones, and chasing two very angry ghosts. He and Sam had both taken a beating by the time they'd finally ended the decades long battle between the two former business partners. And now they were spending the night on the floor of a shabby motel bathroom on Christmas Eve without a penny left between them and probably not even enough gas in the Impala to get them back to town.

Sam screamed Jessica's name again and Dean shook his head. He looked over at his brother. Sam was huddled on his left side on the floor, hands around his head, still mumbling and calling for Jessica. Dean sighed and shifted slightly. Just that little movement had his head swimming and stomach unsettled. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was three forty-five in the morning. They'd maybe slept for an hour after taking turns being violently ill.

Hand across his stomach, Dean reached out a hand to grab his brother's arm. Shaking it, he said hoarsely, "Sam, come on man, wake up."

Each time was a little different. Sometimes Sam woke up easily, other times not so much. _Same nightmare, different day._ Dean waited for a moment as Sam stilled under his touch. Shocked at how cold Sam felt, Dean shook his arm again. As miserable as he felt, Dean knew they both needed to be off the floor. Trying to keep whatever was left in his stomach where it belonged, he scooted closer to his brother.

"Sam." Dean called out more loudly, causing him to break out in a coughing fit. This time Sam gasped and his eyes flew open, hands lowering to the floor as he looked frantically around the room.

"Jess?" Sam whispered, confusion and hope in his eyes.

Dean sighed and leaned his head against the cabinet behind him. He hated it when it was like this. When Sam woke up with hope in his eyes. It made everything so much worse when he finally remembered. Dean asked, "You awake?"

Sam met his eyes and blinked a few times. Dean knew the exact second Sam realized where he was and what was happening. The hope died, replaced by desperation and heartache. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hands against his head again.

"Sam, I'm not sleeping on the floor." Dean muttered, feeling every ache and pain from the past few day, coupled with the fevered ache in his bones. "Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

Sam lowered his hands, tears running down his cheeks. He looked at Dean and said, "It's Christmas Eve."

"Is it? Thought that was next week." Dean frowned. "Are you sure?"

Nodding, Sam shifted and wrapped his arms around himself. He was shaking and his teeth were chattering when he spoke, "I'm freezing. Why's it so cold in here?"

Dean started to answer, but felt his chest tighten and he started to cough. When he was finally able to speak again without coughing, he said, "It's not cold. It's a thousand degrees in here. I'm baking…"

"Like a gingerbread man?" Sam asked with a smile, actually giggling.

"Ok, that's it." Dean shook his head, "You're delirious, aren't you? I hate it when you're delirious."

"I'm not delirious." Sam mumbled, "Already told you what day it is. We're in Arizona. Dad won't answer our calls. We're out of money. Jess is dead. And we're…"

"Ok, ok, shut up." Dean said, cutting him off. He said, "I get it. You're oriented. Super. Oriented and depressing. Come on, time for bed."

"You think either of us is going to make it that far?" Sam raised an eyebrow, swallowing hard. "I don't think I can move."

"Sure you can." Dean said, gingerly moving so he could get to his knees. He coughed so hard that the room spun and he had to put out a hand against the floor to keep from falling on top of his brother. Once he was relatively certain he wasn't going to fall, he pushed on Sam's shoulder. "Get moving."

Groaning, Sam pushed himself very slowly to a semi-sitting position. Dean caught him when his eyes closed and he started to fall over. Not very steady himself, Dean shoved Sam against the edge of the tub and slapped his cheek.

"Sam. Eyes open." Dean said, coughing again. Clearing his throat, he said, "I will leave you right there if you don't help me out."

Sam moaned and lowered his head. He whispered, "Gonna be sick…"

"No. No you are not." Dean said firmly, hand against the back of Sam's neck. "We're done with that. Hear me? You breathe through it and we are both getting a good night's sleep. We worked hard and now we're going to get some sleep. All there is to it."

Sam nodded and swallowed hard. He forced his eyes open and stared at Dean. He said, "This really sucks."

Dean nodded, lowering his head as his breath caught and he started coughing again. He felt a hand on his shoulder as he started to sway on his knees. Finally sucking in a shallow breath, Dean got his good leg under him and started hoping he was going to actually be able to stand up.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You look terrible." Sam's voice was soft and shaky.

"Nah." Dean grinned, although he knew it was a pathetic attempt. He pushed himself to his feet, favoring his sore ankle, and said, "I look good. You're just jealous."

Sam laughed, then groaned, hand pressed to his head again. He said, "Pretty sure I'm not jealous, man."

"Whatever. You think I look terrible," Dean mumbled, keeping his hand against the wall as he looked down at Sam, "wait till you look in a mirror. You hit your head harder than you said, didn't you?"

"No. It's fine. Or would be fine if I hadn't been spewing my guts." Sam said, leaning against the tub and pushing himself to his feet. He almost had to sit down on the edge of the tub, but Dean grabbed his arm and started pulling him forward.

"Move." Dean encouraged, coughing harshly as he led the way from the bathroom. "No man left behind."

Sam kept a hand against the wall as they walked. He still wasn't sure that they should be leaving the bathroom. The way his gut was rolling, it was taking all his willpower not to turn around and throw up again. He made it to the edge of his unmade bed and that was as far as he was going. Sitting down, he reached for his jacket that he'd earlier tossed on the bed and pulled it on as Dean limped over to the table. The room was dimly lit from the bathroom lights, but he could clearly see the expression on his brother's face. And he didn't look happy.

"What the heck is all of this? Sam?" Dean growled, waving a hand at the table, then hacking into his sleeve. He turned to glare at Sam, as he sank into one of the chairs. "Thought you went to buy food not a pharmacy. You spent everything we had on this junk?"

"You've been sick for days and coughing up a lung. I thought…"

Desperation flooding over him, Dean pressed his hands to his eyes and shook his head. He said, "That was all we had. I don't know how I'm even going to fill the gas tank to get us out of this crappy town. And you buy this…"

Sam wished his brother would just shut up. His voice was loud and every time Dean coughed, it was like someone was taking a hammer against his head. Sam whispered, "I didn't know what you'd be able to eat, so I got crackers and Gatorade. And something for your cough and fever."

"I didn't need any of that." Dean argued, voice sharp, "Shouldn't have let you go. We don't have money for this stuff."

"I'm sorry." Sam sighed, trying to meet Dean's eyes.

But Dean was shaking his head again and opening a bottle of Gatorade. Just the sight of the sloshing liquid turned his stomach, and Sam let himself roll onto his side, facing away from his brother. He wanted desperately to pull the covers up over himself, but he couldn't move. He was too tired, too cold and too worried. Dean wasn't overreacting. It was bad. They'd been flat broke before, but never while stranded and both so sick they couldn't go out and hustle a game or two for some spare change.

Sam huddled against the smelly moth-eaten blanket and tried not to be sick again.

* * *

><p>Dean sipped the Gatorade even though it tasted like liquid ash. He looked at the collection on the table again and his heart sank. There was one can of soup and three bottles of Gatorade, a box of crackers and a bottle of cough syrup. A pack of general cold pills rounded out their meager supplies. There was another bag on the other chair, but he wasn't moving that far to see what other drug Sam had spent their few dollars on.<p>

Never having money always sucked, but there wasn't anything quite like being flat broke on Christmas Eve. Staring out the window at the deserted parking lot of the motel, Dean coughed and tried to remember the last time he'd felt so awful. He couldn't.

Resting his head against the cool glass, he closed his eyes for a moment. The Gatorade was staying down, so far, but he felt like it could easily go either way. One wrong move and he'd be spewing again. For a moment, he considered calling Dad, but dismissed it immediately. Dad was busy. Dad was too focused on his mission. He'd never put much effort into Christmas, especially once he started taking them out on the road with him. So there was no point in calling him. A small part of Dean actually still hoped Dad would call them. Every day he hoped. Today even more than usual. Even if he didn't wish them a Merry Christmas. Even if he didn't come find them and give them a helping hand. Just to hear his voice.

Coughing and lowering his head to pillow against his arms on the table, Dean thought back to their recent trip to Pennsylvania that had led to a rather frightening mid-flight exorcism. He remembered their surprise, and Sam's devastation, when they'd listened to Dad's voicemail and learned he'd been directing calls to Dean's number. Instead of talking to them. Dean had been shocked and felt the slightest stirrings of anger that Dad wasn't communicating with them, but Sam had been so upset he hadn't spoken for hours. That, coupled with the guilt and grief that continued to eat away at him, had left him so down and depressed that Dean hadn't known how to deal with it. So he'd just found another job and hauled his brother to Arizona.

_Great decision..._

Dean rolled his head on his arms and glanced over at Sam. He was facing away from Dean, huddled in a ball and shivering. Dean regretted letting his worry get the better of him. Sam had been trying to help, and much as he didn't want to admit it, Dean knew his fever was high enough he _should_ probably be choking down something. But he still couldn't guarantee the Gatorade was going to stay down much longer. A pill or the disgusting cough syrup seemed like excellent options to send him running back for the toilet.

And he wasn't the only one who needed to be taking some medicine. At first, he'd thought Sam might have a concussion, but now, given the way he was shaking with chills, Dean knew he'd caught the same bug. Given that they were in a car together for hours on end most days, it wasn't exactly unusual. But he honestly couldn't remember the last time they'd both been so sick at the same time.

He reached for another bottle of Gatorade and pushed himself up from the table. Wavering, he reached out for the wall and stumbled across the room. Mostly because he couldn't stay on twisted ankle any longer, Dean sat down heavily next to his brother. Sam didn't open his eyes, but scooted over to make more room.

"Sam, you need to try to drink some of this." Dean said, then coughed into his sleeve again. Felt like he was coughing up a ball of barbed wire. Grimacing, he opened the bottle and nudged Sam's shoulder. "Sam."

"No."

He rolled his eyes, "You buy this and expect me to drink it. You get a taste of your own medicine now."

"Seriously, Dean, I will throw up on you." Sam stuttered as his teeth chattered so hard Dean was afraid he was going to break a tooth. He kept his eyes closed and huddled into himself even more. "Thought we were gonna sleep."

"We're gonna try." Dean set the bottle on the floor and pulled the covers up over his brother.

Sam finally looked up at him and said, "You're like a space heater. You take anything for the fever yet?"

"Just a drink. Nothing else is gonna stay down." Dean groaned, breathing carefully to avoid setting off another coughing spell.

He rose and walked unsteadily to the other bed. Dropping onto it, he didn't bother to pull down the covers, just rested his face against the cool pillow. When they'd arrived, they'd had to search through several rooms before they'd found a couple of pillows and some bedding. All of it was thin and stained, but, as usual, they had little choice in the matter. So they made do. As usual, Dean thought in annoyance. Trying to find a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress, Dean briefly considered opening the front door to let in a breeze, but didn't dare given how badly Sam was shivering.

"Sammy?"

"What?"

"You warm enough?"

"Why? You wanna cuddle?" There was a hint of amusement in Sam's voice this time.

Dean glared at the back of his head and said, "No."

"Good, cuz there's no room," Sam called out, words coming in short bursts in between shivers, "on my piece of wreckage for the two of us."

"There was room on that plank of wood for both of them…" Dean countered. They'd been mocking that particular scene of _Titanic_ a couple weeks ago. He continued, "All Rose had to do was slide over a couple inches..." He heard Sam snickering and couldn't help but grin as he added, "He did not have to freeze to death."

"Give me another blanket and I won't either…"

Groaning, Dean yanked the nasty green blanket off his bed and threw it at his brother. He coughed, then said, "Merry Christmas, Sam. Don't say I never gave you anything."

Sam yanked the blanket over his shoulders and muttered, "Other than the flu you mean."

"Shut up, Sam."

* * *

><p><em>0800 AM Christmas Eve<em>

Sam slid the rusted wastebasket closer to his brother's bed. He had to put his head down against the blanket as Dean continued to throw up; this time into the basket, at least. The sun was bright in the window, shining through the threadbare curtains and sending jagged spikes of pain through his head; only encouraging his own stomach to turn itself inside out again. Breathing through his mouth and wishing he couldn't hear Dean choking and coughing into the basket, Sam fought the urge to hurl.

Or panic.

He'd been sitting on the filthy carpet for almost twenty minutes now; shivering despite wearing his hoodie and jacket, while trying to keep Dean from falling flat on his face as he vomited from the edge of the bed. Dean had been too weak to even attempt to get out of bed and Sam had awakened to the sound of him throwing up all over the carpet. Using the last of the paper napkins from their takeout from the week, Sam had mopped up what he could of the mess that and grabbed the basket. So much for getting any sleep. His muscles ached from the chills and he doubted that Dean had slept much given how high his fever still was.

They were in serious trouble.

A few thousand-year long minutes later and Dean finally stopped puking, moaned, and let his head drop back onto the bed in complete exhaustion. Sam forced his head up and looked at him. The sight of his brother lying there, whiter than the disgusting sheets, drenched in sweat and coughing harshly with every other breath scared him more than he wanted to admit. He couldn't get Dean to drink anything. And his fever wasn't coming down.

"Dean…" Sam whispered, voice raspy and strained, "I think we should…"

"No." Dean interrupted, his own voice barely audible after the coughing and retching. "'m not dying."

"Dean…"

Dean reached out and grabbed his arm, eyes bright with fever, but in control. He said, "No doctor. We can't…"

Sam nodded, fighting back tears at how unfair life was and how overwhelmed he felt at the moment. He knew they couldn't. They needed new insurance cards before they dared go to a hospital. New _fake_ insurance cards that they just hadn't had time to make since they'd been spending every moment of their lives either driving across the country looking for their absent father, or fighting evil. And they had no cash for a clinic. Not since he'd spent their last bit of cash on medicine Dean was too sick to take. And there was no one to call since Dad wasn't likely to answer his phone. They had nothing and no one.

Sam let his head hit the bed again and gave up trying to fight the tears.

* * *

><p><em>2 PM Christmas Eve<em>

Dean came awake slowly, like he'd either been drugged or drinking. His entire body felt leaden and achy. Whatever he was lying on was uncomfortable and clammy and he opened his eyes to the same dismal, dirty walls of the ugly motel room they'd been calling home for far too long now. Shifting on the scratchy sheets, he felt the bedspread over his shoulders. He vaguely remembered what had seemed like hours of puking over the edge of the bed before Sam had said something about the fever finally breaking and covered him with the bedspread. No longer feeling like he was about to combust, he felt just a bit chilled as a slight breeze drifted over his skin. Rolling gingerly onto his back, Dean stared up at the mildew on the ceiling and swallowed hard.

There was a touch of nausea, but nothing like earlier. Frowning, he tried to focus on his watch. Two in the afternoon. Dean ran a hand over his face and realized he must have actually gotten some sleep. As another coughing fit threatened to rip his insides apart, he rolled back onto his side, drawing his legs up. Every muscle in his body seemed strained from the vomiting and coughing and he groaned as he tried to catch his breath. His throat felt raw and the only thing he wanted in life was a drink of water. Of course, that meant getting himself into an upright position and possibly moving from the bed; neither of which was he certain he was capable of doing at the moment. Hating to show any sign of weakness, Dean decided it would probably be less weak if he just asked Sam for the bottle of Gatorade rather than trying to walk anywhere yet and ending up on his face.

Dean glanced over at the other bed and realized it was empty. On a normal day, that wouldn't have been at all concerning. If Sam was in bed this late in the day it meant he was sick or seriously injured. Of course, Sam _was _sick, Dean mused, so why wasn't he in bed? Pushing himself up on a shaky elbow, Dean glanced around the room. Empty. And the front door was wide open. Kicking the covers off, Dean sat up and swallowed back the nausea and dizziness. After checking the bathroom, he stumbled across the room to the door, heart trying to force its way up his throat.

"Sam!"

* * *

><p><strong>Uh oh... They're definitely not having a very nice Christmas Eve at all, are they? Wonder if things are about to get better...or worse. :) Drop me a note if you have time to let me know what you thought of Ch2 and stay tuned for Ch3... Thanks!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello all! Thanks for reading and for letting me know what you think! More misery ahead...**

* * *

><p><em>1230 PM, Christmas Eve<em>

She'd been watching them ever since they had arrived; loud and brash in that sleek black car. No one had stayed at the Sleep Tight Motor Inn for over a year so it was a surprise when the car had pulled up. Not since the owner had lost most of his savings gambling. When the money had completely run out he'd put the once cozy motel up for sale and driven away with his few remaining possessions. The For Sale sign was faded and given the out of the way location, it seemed unlikely anyone was ever going to buy the place.

When she'd heard the engine of an approaching car, her lonely heart had jumped for joy. Visitors! Hurrying to the window, she'd peered out to see who had come. Two young men had stepped out of a big black car, looking around with what had seemed to be practiced and very discriminating eyes. They'd pointed and motioned around the motel as they studied it. The taller of the two had shrugged at everything the other one had said. He'd just grabbed a backpack and walked to the closest door. The other guy had watched him go with an exhausted and downtrodden expression on his face.

Slipping out of the room, she'd snuck closer, always keeping well out of sight of the newcomers.

They'd made themselves at home in room 3 and had spent a half-hour searching through all the other rooms for bedding and towels. It was slim pickings as the motel had suffered from thieves and vandals since closing down. She'd hidden in the woods while they'd searched.

She'd wanted to go to them. Talk to them. Help them because they looked like they needed all the help they could get. But she didn't. Because she saw them doing strange things; laying salt lines, talking about poltergeists in a nearby town. They had guns and she would have been lying if she'd said she wasn't afraid of them. Even so, over the next week, as she watched them come back at odd hours, bloodied and beaten down, her heart ached. She would lie on the stripped bed in the room next to theirs and listen to them as they talked. Or argued. In less than a week, she knew enough about them to cry for them.

Now, she watched as the taller one, Sam, stumbled out of the room, headed for the big black car. Every few steps, he paused and closed his eyes, swaying on his feet as he did so. Her breath caught in her throat and she almost ran to him. But she was still too afraid to actually go near them. So she watched from the window in room 8 as he put a hand out on the car and dragged himself toward the driver's side door. Surely he wasn't planning to go anywhere?

She realized he had something in his hand. Something he began to fumble with and then dropped. A phone. She held her breath as he looked down. He supported himself with a hand against the car and lowered himself to reach for the phone. Once his hand closed around it, she took a shaky breath, hopeful. But then he hit his knees and began throwing up in the dirt. Her worry tripled and yet again she wished there was something, anything she could do to help them. She felt so incredibly useless.

After a couple minutes, he finally stilled, breathing in deep gasps. She thought he was going to fall over, but he pulled himself to his feet, the phone in his hand, and he reached up for the door handle. It took him a painful three tries to pull the heavy door open. Once he got it open, he climbed inside and started fiddling with something. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she felt relieved that he hadn't started the car. For several long moments, she watched. He stopped moving, and leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing.

Feeling determined and unusually brave, she left her refuge and slowly approached the car. Tiptoeing across the empty parking lot, she almost lost her nerve halfway to the car. But she couldn't stop. They needed her help; whatever help she could give them. It took all her courage to walk up to the car and take a closer look. She felt maternal instincts she didn't even know she had stirring deep within her at the sight of him.

Face flushed with fever, breaths short and rapid, he didn't stir as she stood by the door. Daring not to touch him, she just whispered, "I'm going to get help. I promise. I'm going to get help."

* * *

><p><em>2 PM Christmas Eve<em>

"Sam!"

Dean clung to the door frame, head lowered. His worry had carried him this far, but his throbbing ankle and utter lack of strength threatened to send him to the ground. Didn't help that he was coughing so hard he was seeing stars in the bright sunlight of the Arizona afternoon. Fingers digging into the rotting wood of the door frame, Dean forced his head up even as one coughing spell ended and another immediately began. Staring out at the parking lot of the motel, the first place his eyes went was to the car. And his heart returned to its proper anatomical location when he saw Sam. He was leaned back in the drivers seat, head resting on the seat back, eyes closed.

There was no way he had enough voice left to call out to his brother, so Dean hoped for the best and let go of the door frame. It felt like learning to walk all over again and he envied toddlers who were much closer to the ground when they fell. At least when he finally fell, he was close enough to the hood of the car to reach out a hand and catch himself. Cursing, Dean struggled to get moving again. His ankle threatened to give out every time he put weight on it and the nausea and lightheadedness he felt was increasing with every step.

Focusing on his target, Dean blinked a few times and took a steadying breath. He limped around the open drivers side door and, keeping a hand on the car frame, leaned down to look at his brother. In a voice so quiet he could barely hear it himself, he called his brother's name.

Nothing. No response. Dean was torn between being completely furious that Sam had left the room for some unknown, but most likely terrible reason, and completely freaking out about how awful he looked. Sparing a hand, Dean shook Sam's shoulder, still receiving no response, and then checked his pulse and found it racing. Swearing again, he shook Sam harder. His own heart rate was increasing with every second he didn't get a response.

"Sam, so help me I'm going to kick your butt into next year for this." Dean ground out, finding it increasingly difficult to stay on his feet, leaning down. He eased himself down to sit on the edge of the floorboard, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of his brother's t-shirt. Shaking him, Dean fought back a cough and yelled, "Sam!"

This time, Sam's head weakly tilted toward his voice and Dean almost grinned in relief. But that wasn't enough. He shook him again and said, "Come on. You gotta give me more than that."

His breath caught again and Dean started coughing. The pain tore through his chest and tears sprang to his tightly closed eyes. He wrapped his arms around his chest and nearly fell face first onto the ground as the coughing fit shook his body. But he didn't fall and once the coughing had died down and he could think straight, he realized why. Someone had a surprisingly strong grip on his left arm. Looking up through the fading stars in his vision, Dean met his brother's eyes.

Swallowing around a raw, burning throat, Dean whispered, "Wakey wakey."

"You're an idiot." Sam's voice wasn't any louder or stronger. "You should be in bed."

Dean straightened up slowly and narrowed his eyes, "Room service didn't answer when I called."

Sam snorted, letting his eyes drift closed again. His hand didn't release Dean's arm. Dean knew they needed to move now if they were going to stand a chance at getting back into the room. They were both running on fumes.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"Home sweet home." Dean muttered, forcing himself up.

"Too hot in there." Sam's voice was almost a whine.

Dean pressed a hand against Sam's face, eliciting a moan as Sam tried to move away from him and finally released his arm. Dean said, "_You're _too hot. Not the room. You're burning up. Come on."

Sam looked at him as if he'd just been asked to jump over the moon. Dean stared at him for a long moment, realizing exactly how bad Sam was feeling when he didn't say anything else. He hated the thought of forcing Sam to move, but sitting up in the car wasn't going to help him either. Dean shook his head slowly, still holding Sam's gaze.

He finally said, "We gotta go now. You can not stay there."

"Dean." Sam breathed out, eyes closing.

"No, no, no." Dean grabbed his shoulder, "Sam, I know you're sick, man, I get it. But I can't carry you and I'm not leaving you in the car. You gotta help me out."

Nodding slowly, Sam shifted on the seat and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up, holding onto the car with one hand for support while he tugged on Sam's arm with the other. Unable to offer much in the way of assistance since he was barely standing upright, could only offer a steadying hand and gentle prompting when Sam stopped moving. It took a full ten minutes for them to stumble to the door of the motel again and Dean felt like it was a huge victory that they even made it that far.

"Almost there." He said, just as another coughing fit caught him off guard.

This was getting very old. Reaching out, Dean grabbed the wall and balanced on his good leg while he coughed. From his left, he heard a wet splatter as Sam threw up all over the sidewalk. Dean wiped hand across his mouth and ground his teeth at the sight of his brother puking again. Day kept getting better and better. He staggered over to Sam's side and caught him just as his knees gave out.

Dean pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder and said, "Few more feet."

Sam's head hit his shoulder and Dean almost fell over when he found himself holding most of Sam's weight. Fighting back the ever-present urge to cough, Dean whispered, "Sam, what were you thinking?"

He didn't get an answer, but at least they maintained forward progress. It took another lifetime, but they made it. Dean helped ease Sam down onto the bed, sitting down next to him and trying to catch his breath. After allowing a minute to recover, he dragged himself to his feet again and limped over to the table. Grabbing the cough syrup, cold medicine, and Gatorade, Dean sat back down on the side of the bed.

"You wanna tell me what you were doing out there?" Dean asked, dumping the supplies on the bed.

He wrenched the lid off the cough syrup and took a swig, hoping for the best. He wasn't sure his stomach was ready for it, but his throat couldn't take much more abuse. Lowering the bottle, he looked down at his brother who still hadn't answered his question. The walk back inside had taken everything he had. Dean didn't like how hard Sam was breathing or the glassy look in his eyes. He was shivering despite several layers and his face was flushed. Dean set the bottle of cough syrup on the bedside table and walked into the bathroom. Running the washcloth under the cold water, Dean took an ill advised look in the mirror. Sam had been right when he'd said he looked terrible.

Shaking his head, he turned off the tap and went back into the other room. Sitting back down, he laid the washcloth against Sam's forehead and wondered if he was making a serious mistake by not trying to find a clinic. Sam stared at him, blinking slowly, barely keeping his eyes open.

"I wake up and you're gone." Dean said, shaking his head. "What were you doing out there, Sam?"

It took a minute, but he finally whispered, "Phone was dead."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "You had an important call to make?"

"In case." Sam shrugged, working hard to force the words out. He reached out a shaking hand and tugged on Dean's shirt, "Lungs sound bad."

"My lungs are fine." Dean shook his head, even though he could hear the rattle every time he took a breath. "You should have stayed put."

Sam's hand fell back to the bed and he closed his eyes.

Dean reached for the bottle of Gatorade and took a drink. It still tasted disgusting, but so far everything was staying where it belonged. Now he just needed to get Sam to take a drink. He had to admit that Sam might have a point about having a charged cell phone in case of emergency. If they couldn't start to keep some fluids down they were both going to be in serious trouble.

"Sam, take a sip." Dean nudged him. Getting no response, he shook his shoulder harder. "Stay with me here."

Sam moaned and turned his head away.

"You have to try." Dean said, feeling stirrings of panic. It didn't look like Sam was going to be able to hang onto consciousness much longer. Shaking him again, he said, "Sam, wake up."

This time Sam's eyes slid open. It took a moment for them to focus on Dean, but when they did, Sam whispered, "Did you see her?"

"See who?" Dean asked, wishing they'd stayed in a motel that was still open. One that had an ice machine. Because he had the terrible feeling they'd just crossed over into delirium. "Listen to me, you have to take a drink."

"Said...she…" Sam said breathlessly, shifting on the bed, "she was...get help."

Dean shook his head, "You were dreaming. Or seeing things. Probably seeing things considering you're burning up. There's no one here but us. As usual."

"No. I saw her…" Sam insisted, eyes drifting closed again.

"Uh huh. Whatever." Dean broke off and hunched over, coughing hard enough to leave him wheezing.

Once he stopped coughing, he looked at the wastebasket near his bed and decided it might be good to have closer. Because everything he had just swallowed was threatening a repeat appearance. Gasping for breath, he reached out and dragged the basket closer. Surprised to find it empty, he realized Sam had probably emptied it at some point. Feeling both admiration and frustration with his brother, Dean let his head hang between his knees for a few minutes, fighting against giving in to the urge to vomit. It wasn't easy, but he managed to keep the Gatorade and cough syrup down.

One of them had to start feeling better soon. That was all there was to it. When Sam suddenly rolled to his side and began dry heaving, Dean decided Sam probably wasn't the one. Pushing the basket closer, Dean fought back his own nausea. Sam didn't bring anything up this time and Dean eased him onto his back when he stilled. Wiping the still damp washcloth over Sam's face, Dean toyed with the idea of dragging him into town. Insurance cards or not, they needed help.

Sam's exhausted eyes were on him again and Dean smiled slightly. He said, "Bet you wish you were still at Stanford right about now."

"Nah." Sam shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes, "Wouldn't miss this for the world..."

"Uh huh." Dean grinned, then curled over coughing again. With a shaking hand, he reached for the cough syrup again and downed another gulp.

"S'pposed to read...directions." Sam mumbled, "Overdose…"

Dean shrugged, squinting at the bottle. He looked back at Sam and said, "Sorry I came down on you about the medicine…"

"Just worried." Sam shrugged, "I know."

"Even so, I'm sorry." Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was so tired. Sick and tired. He lowered his head to his hand for a moment.

"Go to sleep."

Dean looked up and said, "Not till you turn down the heat. I'm not taking a nap while you spontaneously combust."

"Urban legend…"

Rolling his eyes, Dean asked, "Will you try to take a drink?"

Sam swallowed hard and whispered, "Come back up."

"You gotta force yourself to keep it down, Sam. You're dehydrated."

"Later." Sam said, closing his eyes again. "She's getting help."

Dean frowned, realizing it shouldn't really be a surprise that Sam was drifting in and out of reality. Even so, it was starting to scare him. He grabbed the washcloth and headed for the bathroom again. If he couldn't get Sam's temperature down soon, he was hauling them to the ER. He had almost made it to the sink when he lost the battle. Stumbling toward the toilet, he dropped to his knees and threw up the Gatorade and cough syrup. Groaning as he dry heaved, Dean felt like someone was sitting on his chest. The room started to go dark as his heaves turned to bone rattling coughs. Gasping, he panicked as he found it nearly impossible to draw a breath.

He lost consciousness before he hit the cold floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh dear! This doesn't look good at all, does it? Wonder what's going to happen next... stay tuned! :) Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi everyone! I know it's late in the day as usual...but here's chapter four! A big thanks to everyone who is reading this little fic. Hope you enjoy...the plot, as they say, thickens a bit in this chapter... **

* * *

><p><em>3:30 PM Christmas Eve<em>

She'd been standing on the side of the road for hours. It wasn't a busy highway and the handful of cars that had actually appeared while she'd watched had not even slowed down for her as she frantically waved her arms, begging them to stop. As a semi roared by, she lowered her head and stared at the pavement in defeat. She knew her shirt was stained with dirt and blood and her hair was a mess. Maybe no one wanted to stop because she looked so filthy. Wiping her hands across her jeans, she tried not to cry.

The one and only thing she could do for the two guests at the motel was to get them the help they so desperately needed. And she was going to fail. It was Christmas Eve. How could everyone just ignore her? Did no one have any Christmas spirit left? Was this what the world had come to? Everyone busy on their way to family or friends, no one caring to take the time to see if a dirty, bloody woman on the side of the road needed help? Despite her best attempts to keep from crying, the floodgates broke and she dropped heavily to the ground, cross-legged in the dirt, hands to her face as she sobbed.

* * *

><p><em>3:40 PM Christmas Eve<em>

He could hear Sam's voice from the other room. Dean had been listening to Sam for the past hour while lying flat on the floor in the bathroom, staring up at the ceiling and struggling to breathe. There wasn't enough air in his lungs to even attempt to call out to his brother. Especially when he found himself fighting not to cough with every breath. He'd awakened with fire in his lungs and the complete inability to move. Sitting up would have been heaven, but he didn't have the strength. Every time he tried, he fell back with a coughing spell that left his chest spasming and his vision blackening.

So Dean lay still, fighting for each breath and listening to Sam mumbling incoherently. Every once in awhile he called out for Jessica, but mostly he was calling for Dean. Which only worried Dean even more. Because if he didn't find a way to get enough breath to answer him, he knew Sam was going to get it in his delirious and confused head that he needed to come find him and that was going to end only one way. With both of them on the floor too weak to ever get off it again.

Dean groaned and wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling the cold seeping into his body from the floor. The only good thing he could think of about his current situation was that he no longer felt so sick to his stomach. He heard Sam shout his name again and this time he didn't sound confused, he sounded really worried. Dean wished he could reassure his brother, but instead, the sound of his own painful gasps was all he could hear as the rushing tide of blackness swept over him again.

* * *

><p><em>5:15 PM Christmas Eve<em>

As dusk had fallen, so had her last hope of someone stopping to help her. She'd chased after the last car she'd seen but they had only sped up. It felt wrong. No one cared. Not even on Christmas Eve. Now she stood at the open doorway of their room. Hesitating. While she'd been gone Sam had somehow made his way back inside. She could see him on his bed, could hear his labored breathing. Toes on the threshold, she knocked on the door.

Nothing. Sam didn't stir and she couldn't see his brother. But the bathroom light was on and she called out in a timid voice, "Hello?"

Still no response.

She stared down at the threshold and thought about their guns. About the knives she'd seen them packing. About their frightening conversations she'd listened to through the thin wall between their room and the one she tended to hide out in. She was terribly worried about them, but also very afraid. Standing in the doorway, she felt the wind picking up and the distant roll of thunder. The breeze had disturbed the neat little line of white across the threshold and she leaned down and stared at it; wondering what its purpose was. Chewing her lip, she looked back up at Sam and tried to decide, as she had been trying to do all week, if he and his brother were insane killers or two people who really needed some help.

Hearing horrible coughing from the bathroom, she rose, mind made up. They might be insane killers, but they definitely needed help. And right now, on Christmas Eve, she wasn't going to worry about what they may or may not have done. No one driving by seemed to care about her, but she cared about them.

So she walked into the room, still feeling skittish as she approached the bed. Looking down at Sam, she immediately reached out a hand and touched his forehead. He moaned at her touch and moved his head weakly against her hand.

"I'm sorry…" She whispered, heart in her throat. She knew her hand was like ice against his burning skin. Squeezing his hand and hoping he could hear her, could understand she meant him no harm, she whispered, "I'm here to help, Sam. My name is Raquel."

Turning, she hurried into the bathroom and put her hand to her mouth at the sight of the other brother on the floor, weakly gasping for breath, lips almost blue. Tears in her eyes, she hurried to his side and tried to rouse him. But he didn't respond to her touch or her voice. Raquel knew there was nothing she was going to be able to do for him. And he needed help now.

Running back into the other room, she sat down on the bed and put both hands against Sam's face. Raquel shouted, "Sam! Wake up now. Your brother needs you right now!"

"Dean…" Sam mumbled, eyes still closed. He frowned and again tried to turn away from her touch.

"Yes. Dean." Raquel blinked back the tears and kept shouting, "He's sick, Sam and you have to help him. He needs you, Sam!"

This time, he slowly forced his eyes open. Bloodshot and shining with fever, his eyes finally focused on her and he frowned in confusion. Raquel smiled and said, "Hello."

His eyes slid closed again and she put her cold hands on the sides of his neck this time, and he gasped. His breathing hitched and he shook his head back and forth, then blinked at her. Sam whispered, "Who are…"

"Raquel." She said quickly, patting his cheek. "Never mind me right now. Dean needs your help, Sam. He's having trouble breathing."

"Dean?"

"Yes." She grabbed his hands, "Please, come on. You have to help him."

Sam still looked confused, but nodded and started weakly moving. Raquel stepped back just enough to give him room to roll over, but not far enough that she couldn't slap him if he stopped moving. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, head hanging as he squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed hard.

Raquel held her breath, knowing he was struggling to function. She rocked back and forth on her heels and toes, holding her breath and hoping he could make it to his brother. Because if he went down, there wasn't any hope. As he pushed himself upright, Raquel wrapped her arm around him, for all the good it would do, and squeezed his arm with her free hand. He shivered in her grasp. Hoping she was doing more good than harm, she remained at his side as he walked into the bathroom. Hearing his breath catch when he saw Dean on the floor, Raquel knew he was going to do whatever it took to help his brother.

She stepped back. She'd done what she could.

* * *

><p>"Dean," Sam said, hand out against the wall as he walked into the bathroom. The bottom of his world fell out for a terrifying moment when he caught his first sight of Dean on the floor. He moved forward, whispering, "No..."<p>

He went to his knees at his brothers side because his legs refused to hold him up for another second. He heard the awful sound of Dean's ragged breathing and crawled forward. Reaching for Dean's shirt, he immediately hauled him into a sitting position, leaning him back against the tub. The world was spinning around Sam as he tried to hold his completely limp brother upright. Dean's breathing still sounded terrible, but at least he lost some of the dusky hue to his face once he was no longer flat on his back on the floor.

Sam lowered his head for a minute, hands still on Dean's shirt to keep him from falling over. He frowned and tried to breathe through the nausea and dizziness. Everything was fuzzy, but he remembered a voice talking to him, calling his name. He almost thought he remembered seeing a woman. But it was fleeting and he couldn't remember anything specific.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, studying his pale face for any sign of awareness.

Nothing. Thankful that Dean was at least breathing a bit easier, Sam started thinking about trying to get back out to the car and grab his cell phone. He understood Dean's concern and hesitation to go to a hospital. If only one of them was sick, they usually could deal with whatever they had to. It was another matter altogether when_ neither_ of them could remain vertical.

"Sammy?"

"Dean?" Sam watched his brother force his eyes open. "Hey, you with me?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and asked, "Happened?"

"Think you passed out." Sam said, feeling worse by the second.

When he'd first entered the bathroom, he'd felt a little cooler, a little less like he was on fire, but now he was starting to doubt his ability to remain upright for much longer. He studied Dean as he started to cough again. It was a painful, rattling sound and the congestion in his lungs seemed worse. Sam tapped his cheek.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Gotta get up."

"Can't."

"If I can, you can." Sam said through gritted teeth.

"Can you?" Dean asked, eyes open and full of doubt.

Sam reached a hand out to the wall and stayed on his knees. The world tilted and he had to let his head rest against the wall for a few seconds. He tugged on Dean's shirt and whispered, "Move."

Dean groaned, coughed, then put his hands against the floor and pushed himself onto the edge of the tub. He looked up at Sam and said, "For the love of all that is good in this world, please do not throw up on me Sam."

Breathing carefully, eyes tightly closed, Sam didn't dare tell Dean how much of a possibility it was that he might do just that. He listened as Dean slowly moved. Sam stayed put because if he tried anything else he was going to throw up on his brother for real. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Dean's hoarse voice from somewhere above him.

"You're still on your knees."

A hand grabbed his arm and after a few attempts, Sam was on his feet, eyes still closed. Dean was pushing him toward the sink and Sam heard the water running. He felt Dean pushing his head down and he jumped as cold water hit the back of his neck. He moaned and leaned against the counter on his forearms as Dean used a cupped hand to pour water over his head.

Dean was coughing again, but never stopped what he was doing. He whispered, "We gotta get your fever down."

Sam grunted in agreement. He was tempted to take a cold shower, but the fact was he really needed to be off his feet. Like right now. Desperation crept into his voice as he pulled away from Dean and said, "I can't…"

"Ok, ok." Dean said, turning the water off. He kept his hand on Sam's arm as they left the bathroom. "Few more feet…"

As soon as he felt the bed against his leg, Sam dropped onto it and curled into a ball. He was far too hot to be huddled like that, but his stomach was threatening to jump out of his throat again. He heard Dean moving around like a thousand year old man and Sam looked up at him. Dean took a careful drink of the cough syrup and replaced it on the nightstand. He unsteadily moved to the other bed and grabbed the two pillows and blanket.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean muttered, walking around the other side of Sam's bed.

"What'er you doing?"

Dean stacked the pillows against the headboard and leaned against them, fighting another coughing spell. He patted Sam on the back and said, "Buddy system. Tired of us taking turns being on the floor."

Sam shifted slightly and pressed his face against the cool sheet. He whispered, "How does this help?"

"Hoping we can keep track of each other," Dean said with a sigh, "and that the lucid one can stop the idiotic one before they go anywhere."

For a few minutes they fell into a silence broken only by Dean's rasping breaths and hacking coughs. Sam pressed one hand against his pounding head and fisted the other into the sheets. He felt his grip on reality slipping.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"How're you doing?"

Sam grimaced. _Not good, thanks for checking_. He started to respond, then the vague memory of a woman's face drifted into his mind and he asked, "Did you see her?"

"Who?" Dean poked him in the shoulder. "What the heck are you talking about?"

Sam fought to keep his thoughts straight. Everything was swimming in and out of focus. He said, "She...I think...I saw her again…"

Dean's hand was on the back of his neck and his voice was tight with worry, "Sam? You're not making any sense. Not that you usually do…"

Sam tried, he really did, but he couldn't follow what Dean was saying. It made his head hurt to much to try. So he just listened to the sound of his brother's voice, rather than the words he was saying. After awhile, he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>Raquel watched from the doorway. She pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her jacket and leaned her head against the door frame. The gently rain made everything seem dreary and matched her mood perfectly. While she was relieved the both brothers were still breathing, and apparently resting quietly for at least the moment, Raquel couldn't quiet the fear burning a hole deep in her gut.<p>

They were far from out of the woods. And there wasn't much she could do for them. Listening to Dean cough again, she knew their situation hadn't changed. They still needed medical attention. Deciding the best thing to do for now was to stay put and keep an eye on them, Raquel glanced over her shoulder at the deserted parking lot. It was quiet and she breathed a little easier. First thing in the morning, she would head back to the highway and try again to flag down a passing car.

And hope she could get everyone away from the motel before he came back.

Because she knew he wouldn't show any mercy to them just because they were sick. He hadn't shown her any mercy last Christmas and Raquel doubted very much that a year had changed him in any way. She closed her eyes and, for the first time in a long time, prayed for a miracle.

* * *

><p><strong>Plot: thickening. :D <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Merry Christmas! (Ok...day after Christmas). I tried, I SWEAR I tried to get this chapter posted Christmas Eve like I promised/planned. I really did! But with the Christmas prep busyness, i just couldn't squeeze in enough time to write and was an epic failure. And then today was (go figure) busy with y'know, presents and such so it's now December 26th and I'm just finally getting this posted! This chapter gave me fits and I scrapped like four versions before I finally got it where I was happy with it. :)**

**I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas full of family, friends and good food!**

**I'm afraid the boys are still stuck on Christmas Eve and they are _not _having a good time at all...**

* * *

><p><em>8:20 PM Christmas Eve<em>

"I had it all planned out, you know? There was that little bar we stopped at the first night we got into town, and I was gonna look up that blonde chick." Dean smiled briefly at the thought, then turned his head away from his brother and coughed. Catching his breath, he looked back over at Sam and said, "This wasn't how I planned to spend Christmas Eve."

Of course he hadn't planned on coming down with the lungs of an eighty year old asthmatic smoker either. And he certainly hadn't planned on holding his brother up as he vomited into a wastebasket on Christmas Eve. He pushed Sam against the edge of the bed when it seemed like he was finished. _For now._ It was his fault, really. Sam had been actually been sleeping soundly for a couple hours until Dean had experienced a particularly bad coughing fit. Once awake, Sam had gone from confused to restless to puking in the space of a few minutes. Dean had only made it worse by trying to get him to drink some Gatorade. Ever since, they'd been sitting side by side on the floor while Dean hacked up a lung and Sam threw up what had to be his stomach lining. Because Dean had no idea what else he could possibly have left to throw up at this point.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Dean saw Sam's right hand was extended and he handed him the wet washcloth again. Sam pressed it to his face with both hands. Sighing, Dean slid the wastebasket aside as Sam drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them. At least it was getting longer between intervals, Dean mused, glancing at his watch. With any luck they'd make it to fifteen minutes this time before Sam started throwing up again. The record so far was fourteen and a half minutes. He heard Sam mumble something and leaned closer.

"What?" He asked.

"The room..."

"It's not spinning, Sam." Dean said. It wasn't the first time he'd had to answer that question. "It's just the fever."

"Time's it?"

"Eight twenty. Got some place to be?" Dean asked, taking a sip of Gatorade to hold off another coughing spell.

Sam stiffened and whispered, "Jess?"

"Not here, Sammy." Dean sighed, resting his hand on the back of Sam's neck. He was still burning up and Dean wasn't surprised that he was having trouble keeping on the right side of reality. Coughing into his sleeve, he leaned his head back and stretched his legs out in front of him. He said, "Few more hours."

"Till what?" Sam turned his head slightly.

"Till morning."

Sam lowered the washcloth and shot Dean a questioning look. His cheeks were flushed bright red and his lips were dry and cracked. He swallowed hard and asked, "What's good about morning?"

"I don't know. But it's gotta be better than this." Dean said, coughing again. He rubbed his chest and said, "Feel like someone took a potato peeler to my throat."

"You need a doctor." Sam whispered, handing Dean the washcloth and pressing his hands to his head.

Shoving the washcloth into the travel mug he'd filled with cold water earlier, Dean snorted, "And you don't. If you can't keep your guts where they belong and actually hold down some of this crap," he shook the bottle of Gatorade, "by morning, we're going to find a clinic or something."

"We can't."

"We don't have a choice."

Even penniless and without insurance, fake or otherwise, they were going to have to get help soon. Because they were too sick to hope for the best anymore. They were both dehydrated, although he was at least holding down the Gatorade. Sam's fever had been too high for far too long and ever since about six-thirty, Dean had started coughing up thick nasty gunk. At least Sam was too out of it to notice that, Dean thought gratefully. He finished off the bottle of Gatorade and set it aside. Glancing at the table, he decided he'd wait a few minutes before forcing himself to somehow get back to his feet and make it over there for another bottle. Instead, he squeezed the washcloth out over the mug and pressed it against the back of Sam's neck.

His arm resting against Sam's back as he held the washcloth in place, Dean realized his brother's breathing was irregular and shallow. He didn't sound congested, but he was breathing like he was in the middle of a marathon. Dean rubbed his free hand against his eyes. He was exhausted. This was supposed to have been a quick, easy salt and burn. Take down a few ghosts. No biggie. Instead they got beat to hell by grumpy men in suits and then, when they should have been celebrating with a couple of cold ones, instead they wound up broke and sick and all alone on Christmas Eve.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean rubbed his eyes again and peered at Sam, "Need the bucket again?"

"No. M'head really hurts."

Dean frowned. Between the knock he'd taken during the hunt and the endless nausea, vomiting and raging fever, it was no wonder his head hurt. Dean considered their options and said, "I know. You wanna try something? There's Tylenol in that cold medicine you bought. Would help with the fever too."

Sam lowered his right hand and looked at Dean doubtfully. He said, "Don't think I can keep...it down."

"Alright," Dean coughed into his sleeve, studying his brother. "That's it. We're going to find a doctor."

"No. We can't." Sam whispered, "Just...give it to me. I'll...I can...I'll keep it down. I'll try."

Dean stared at him, considering. He honestly wasn't even sure he would be able to get them to the car at this point, let alone drive anywhere. Fear was beginning to gnaw at his gut. Maybe he'd waited too long, taken a chance he shouldn't have.

"Just get it." Sam nodded, sensing his indecision. "I'll try."

"Fine." Dean said, pushing himself to his feet.

He had to sit down on the edge of the bed and catch his breath before he could take even one step toward the table. Looking up, he coughed until he saw stars again, then, once his breathing eased, stumbled toward the table. The pain in his chest was so bad at this point that he barely noticed the ache in his right ankle. Even so, he limped every time he tried to put weight on it. Reaching the table, he had to lean on it for a long time to get his breathing back to what counted for normal lately. Thankful he had managed to make it that far without another coughing fit, Dean gathered the remaining supplies into a bag. Just about to turn around, he spotted the other bag on the chair. He hadn't looked at it earlier, but he grabbed it and took a peek.

Candy canes.

Rolling his eyes, he brought it with him, ready to tease Sam about his sweet tooth. Then he remembered hearing somewhere about peppermint being good for nausea. Grinning, he limped back over to the bed. He lowered himself down next to Sam and set the bags on the carpet. With fumbling fingers, Dean managed to rip into the package.

"Here ya go." He held a candy cane in front of Sam's eyes. "Christmas candy."

Sam raised an eyebrow and stretched his legs out. "What's that for?"

"Peppermint's good for nausea." Dean explained, waiting for Sam to take the candy.

"What?"

"Come on, you haven't heard that?" Dean asked, unwrapping the candy cane. "It's also Christmas Eve. So have some Christmas cheer. Besides, this might be the one thing we both can actually handle right now. Take it or I'll hang it from your ear."

Sam reached for the candy cane and took a deep breath before trying the candy. Dean stared at him expectantly. After a minute passed without any repercussions, Dean asked, "So? You haven't puked yet. How do you feel?"

"Like an idiot." Sam muttered, but carefully licked the candy again.

Dean grinned and grabbed another candy cane. He said, "Well, you've always been my idiot, little brother. No need to go changing now."

"I hate you."

"I just gave you Christmas candy." Dean shot him a pitiful look, then licked his own candy cane. "You should be grateful, bitch."

"Thanks, jerk." Sam's lips twitched in a slight smile.

"That's better." Dean grinned again and asked, "Why'd you buy these anyway?"

Sam lowered his candy cane and said, "Didn't. Clerk just gave them to me."

"She must've thought you were cute. Or pitiful." Dean bit off a chunk of the candy and wrinkled his nose, "Probably pitiful. Well, whatever. It's working so far, right?"

"I don't know." Sam whispered, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He was swallowing hard again and Dean knew there was no way he would ever be able to keep a pill down. He set his candy cane aside and grabbed the washcloth. Rewetting it, Dean pushed Sam's head back against the bed. Sam's hands dropped to the floor and Dean realized exactly how crappy his brother felt because he didn't even try to take the washcloth this time. He just kept his eyes closed and let Dean wipe it over his face.

"Maybe it's time we throw you in a cold shower. Well, bath, I guess, because I don't see you standing upright anytime soon." Dean shook his head, cursing at the heat rolling off his brother. "This fever is not breaking."

Sam looked at him with glassy eyes and said, "Don't wanna die in there..."

"Why would you die in there?" Dean asked, heart in his throat. Either the delirium was catching up or Sam was feeling a lot worse than he even looked. And he looked like hell. "Sam?"

"Cuz you'll never be able to get me out." Sam smiled briefly. "And I don't think I can do it myself."

Dean coughed and shook his head. Getting the cloth wet again, he said, "Dude, I'd hold your head above water so you wouldn't drown."

Sam snickered, then squeezed his eyes closed, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He whispered, "Dean?"

Heart aching at how miserable Sam looked, he asked, "Yeah, Sam?"

"It's gonna be better in the morning, right?"

Dean coughed when he tried to speak. Clearing his throat he said, "Yeah. 'Course it will. Tomorrow's Christmas. It'll be better." Sam didn't reply. Dean studied his brother and asked, "You wanna lie down again?"

Sam nodded.

"Ok, I'll help you." Dean said, starting to move. He watched as Sam just curled up on the floor on his side, hands wrapped around his head again. Dean sighed. Apparently they were staying on the floor.

Dean got to his knees and grabbed a pillow from the bed. Crawling forward, he gently lifted Sam's head and tucked the pillow underneath. Turning around, he gathered the bag of supplies and the mug of water and dragged it back with him. He settled across from Sam with his back against the other bed. After coughing up a mouthful of gunk and spitting it into the trashcan, he opened another bottle of Gatorade and took a sip. Then he pulled Sam's hands away from his face and pressed the washcloth against his forehead again.

Sam didn't open his eyes, but relaxed a bit. He reached out until he blindly caught hold of Dean's wrist. Voice broken and breathless, he whispered, "Don't leave me."

Blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes, Dean pulled his wrist free, and eased Sam's hand to the floor. Squeezing his hand, Dean said, "Not leaving, Sammy. Not now, not ever. Got it?"

"Yeah." Sam looked up at him for a split second before his eyes closed again.

"Good." Dean nodded. He wiped the washcloth over Sam's face and lowered his own aching head to his free hand. He desperately wanted to lie down too, but he knew he'd never be able to breathe in that position. So he settled in for a long, miserable night.

* * *

><p><em>9 PM Christmas Eve<em>

Raquel watched from the doorway for a few more minutes, then turned away. She'd been watching them for hours. Watching as they took care of each other. Watching their misery as they grew worse and worse. And she couldn't do it any longer. So she headed back to the highway. It was late, it was dark and it was Christmas Eve. If it took all night, if she had to step in front of a car she was going to do it. Because she wasn't going back to the motel room without help.

A semi roared past her just as she arrived back at the highway. Raquel swallowed her fear and looked up the road. She could already see the glow of headlights coming her way. At least now, in the dark, no one would be able to see the dirt and blood on her jacket and jeans. They'd stop and then she'd tell them she needed help and someone would help her this time. They had to.

The car was coming at her quickly, though not at the same speed as the semi that had disappeared into the night. She stood on the side of the road, still hesitant to step in front of the car. As it drew near her, she started waving her arms and jumping up and down. The car seemed to slow down, but she wasn't sure. Raquel ran into the road, still waving her arms. Cars had slowed before and not stopped. She couldn't take the chance that this one would do the same. So she held her breath and stood in the path of the car, praying it would stop in time.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope it was worth the wait! A bit of a late Christmas present for you. Thank you all for taking the time to read, and for those of you who have reviewed and all of you who have set alerts to follow and those who have added this story to their favorites! It truly means the world to me and I love writing for you all. :) <strong>

**So...do you think Raquel is going to have any luck this time? And who exactly is she, anyway? Can't promise to answer the second question in Chapter 6, but I promise to answer the first! Cheers! :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, help has finally arrived! Let's see who comes to rescue the boys and how things go...**

* * *

><p><em>9:05 PM Christmas Eve<br>__Highway_

"It was great to have the entire family together for once. And so nice that Mina brought Jake. I've been wanting to meet him."

Tommy Pender nodded, turning his brights on. He glanced at his wife as she clicked through the Christmas pictures on her camera. He said, "I warned Erik that Mina was going to be engaged by the new year. And Jake asked him this evening if he could propose to Mina."

Arla lowered the camera and grinned, "Erik told you that? Awww, how sweet! And with Katey pregnant and Ryan about to graduate, it's certainly going to be a busy year for Erik and Elizabeth."

"I'm not sure my brother can handle the excitement." Tommy rolled his eyes.

"He is rather low-key about things." Arla raised an eyebrow. Erik was one of the most laid back, non-excitable people she had ever met. Shaking her head, she glanced back at the pictures. She found one of Elizabeth opening a present; childlike glee on her face. Laughing, Arla showed Tommy the picture and said, "But his wife isn't. She's going to be a mess..."

"I know." Tommy said. "Would rather not think about that. Glad I'm not married to her..."

"Now, don't be mean. She's a..." Arla broke off and lowered the camera. "Tommy, slow down. Someone's in the road."

Tommy narrowed his eyes and looked ahead. He still had his high beams on and shook his head, but slowed the car. He said, "That's a deer."

"A deer that's waving its arms, Tommy?" Arla leaned forward, slapping him on the shoulder. "Slow down! Slow down, they need help."

"We are not stopping for..."

"Stop the car." Arla insisted, slapping his shoulder again. Harder. The figure in the street was clearly a woman, jumping up and down and waving her arms frantically. "Tommy, stop the car."

"You're retired." Tommy whined, but he was already pulling the car to the side of the road.

Arla nodded, "So are you. Doesn't mean it stops you from jumping every time there's a call on the scanner."

"I'm stopping, aren't I?" He muttered, glancing to the right as the woman ran up to Arla's window.

She was probably in her mid-thirties and pretty, if a little ragged in appearance. Under a dirty jean jacket that looked suspiciously like it was stained with blood spray, she was wearing a red sequined shirt. Her jeans were also dirty and stained and she brushed a shaking hand over her clothes. Eyes wide and frightened, tears ran down her cheeks.

Arla rolled down the window and said, "I'm Arla. Do you need help?"

"Raquel." The woman said. She peered at them, wiping a hand over her face and said, "My friends...they're sick."

"Honey, you don't look good yourself. Were you in an accident?" Arla asked, trying to get a better look. The woman stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself. Arla held up her hand and said, "It's ok. We aren't going to hurt you. Do you need medical attention?"

The woman laughed hysterically and then shook her head, "I'm fine. Please, I...they need help. They're sick and I can't help them and I think...they...I think they're going to die."

Arla frowned and asked, "Where are they?"

"Arla..." Tommy's voice took on a cautioning tone.

She knew it was his training, His experience. And she wasn't discounting it. She couldn't see a car anywhere and knew very well that it could be a set-up. But there was fear in the woman's eyes that you just couldn't fake. So either she was being forced to be the bait for some kind of trap, or she was genuinely worried for her friends and so desperate she would run out on a highway late at night to flag down a car.

Raquel said, "They're up at the motel."

Arla looked around, trying to place where they were exactly.

"The one that closed down?" Tommy asked, leaning closer to look at Raquel.

"Yes."

"Why are your friends at a closed up motel?" He asked, not trying to be unkind, but still suspicious.

Raquel's face crumpled as she started to cry. She said, "They're broke. They came to town to help people and they got sick. And they can't afford a hospital or food or anything. But they're both so sick, please, please, I don't know what else to do."

"It's ok." Arla said, heart stirring at the woman's plight. She looked at Tommy. He shrugged and nodded. Arla looked back at the woman. "Raquel, we'll go see if we can help them."

The brunette's eyes widened with hope. She said, "Thank you thank you! I'll meet you up there."

Arla's jaw dropped as the woman turned and ran into the woods, disappearing in a heartbeat. She said, "I can't believe she..."

Tommy just turned the car around and said, "We didn't have room for a passenger anyway."

He was right, of course. The trunk and entire back seat was crammed with Christmas presents and the donated supplies. Arla realized those supplies might come in handy sooner than she'd expected. She said, "I still can't believe she would just run like that. But she looked like she's been through a lot. She's scared and really worried about her friends."

"So it appears." Tommy said, hunting for the weed-overgrown road that led up to the motel. He added, "This seems..."

"Hush." Arla said, setting the camera back in its case and unbuckling her seat belt. She turned around and started digging through the mess in the back for her backpack. She said, "You're a suspicious old man, Tommy."

"Kept me alive all these years." Tommy smiled as they bumped over the rutted dirt road. He said, "I'm being careful. And I'm going to take a look around before you go and get into trouble."

Arla leaned over and gave him a quick kiss, then settled back in her seat with her backpack on her lap. Staring into the darkness ahead she said, "I expected that you would, dear."

It took them almost five minutes to drive up the winding dirt road to the motel. When they pulled into sight of the motel, Arla pointed. "Look, there's a car. That must be them."

"Uh huh." Tommy agreed, eyes roving the entire place. It had once been a fairly nice motel, they'd actually stayed there a few times themselves, but now it was just an eyesore. An abandoned building ripe for vagrants and low-lifes to take advantage of. He knew it was his natural born suspicion, but he couldn't help but wonder who exactly they were coming to help.

Arla interrupted his thoughts, "Tommy, stop being so negative. Let's not assume the worst of everyone."

"Yes dear." He said, parking the SUV a space away from what looked like a classic Impala. It looked well maintained. Nodding in appreciation, he glanced at the motel room beyond the car. The front door was open and he could see a pale light from somewhere inside. Arla was already moving and he grabbed her arm. He said, "We go together."

She nodded and they got out of the car, her backpack over her shoulder and his Beretta in his hand. Arla stayed a step behind him as he walked to the room. She glanced around wondering how long it would take Raquel to reach the motel. Tommy paused at the door and made her wait just outside it. Something must have made him think it wasn't safe. It was hard to wait but she trusted him. He was the expert. If he didn't think it was safe, she wasn't going inside. So she stared at the big black car in front of her and waited for him. A few seconds passed and she heard him mumbling quietly.

Arla leaned closer to the door. She couldn't hear exactly, but it almost sounded like he was talking to someone. And he was talking in that gentle tone that he'd used on the twins any time they'd scraped a knee or had a broken heart from a bad break up. That wasn't his cop voice; that was his dad voice. About ready to turn the corner and go in, Arla looked up as he came back out. His face told her everything.

He said, "There are some weapons in there, Arla, but I'm not going to jump to any conclusions yet. Those two boys need your help."

Arla nodded and walked into the room. She gasped at the sight that met her in the dimly lit, grungy little motel room. Vaguely, she noticed the mess. The clothes and supplies scattered around. The take out containers in a pile under the table. But mostly she noticed the two young men huddled against one of the beds.

Only one had his eyes open and even across the room, she could see the despair. His face was flushed with fever and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead. He had his arms wrapped around the other guy's chest, holding him up. And, judging from how wretched the second guy's lungs sounded even from across the room, it was probably a good thing. Arla crossed the room and knelt next to them, wondering where in the world to start. Because they both looked terrible.

"Please," the kid with the bleary eyes whispered hoarsely, "help m'brother."

"I'm going to." Arla smiled, setting her backpack down. Unzipping it, she said. "My name is Arla. What's your name?"

"Sam." He said, then looked down at his brother's upturned face. "Dean...he...can't breathe."

"You did good keeping him upright." Arla nodded, pulling out her stethoscope. "His name is Dean?"

Sam nodded. His hands tightened into fists, gripping his brother's shirt. Arla saw the fear, the uncertainty on his face and had a pretty good idea that the kid wasn't used to people helping him. Or being kind. Arla sighed and gently touched his shoulder.

She smiled again and said, "Sam, I'm here to help you both, ok?" Arla motioned to Tommy who was hovering at her shoulder, "You met my husband Tommy? We're going to help you."

"He...fell over," Sam said, his own breathing sounding labored, "and he couldn't...breathe again."

"I'm going to listen to his lungs, now, Sam, and we're going to help you both."

Sam swallowed hard and closed his eyes, his head lowering to rest against his brother's. It was a simple gesture that spoke of deep trust and love. Arla's heart melted. She wondered what their story was. They were close, that much was obvious. And something told her they'd lived a difficult life.

Arla shook her head, blinking back tears as she put the stethoscope to her ears. She pressed the diaphragm of the stethoscope against Dean's chest. Lungs sounded like utter crap, as she'd already expected. She looked up at his pale face and dusky lips. They hadn't gotten here a moment too soon. Glancing at her watch, Arla checked his pulse and respirations. Sky high. Not good. She set the stethoscope aside and looked up at Tommy.

"I knew those supplies were going to be a blessing to someone. Go grab the tanks and the respiratory supply kit." Arla glanced back at the brothers and put her hand against Sam's forehead. Her heart sank at the heat she felt. She added, "Better bring in the cooler, too, Tommy. We need to ice him down or this one's going to go up in flames."

She heard Tommy move away and returned her attention to her patients. Reaching back into her bag, she found the pulse oximeter and slid it onto Dean's finger. She saw Sam was looking at her again, head still resting against his brothers, and she asked, "Hey, Sam. How are you doing? Looks like Dean's not the only one feeling lousy."

He stared at her for a long moment, but she could tell he wasn't seeing her. Eyes glassy and far away, he whispered, "Jess?"

Arla frowned. The girl at the side of the road had said her name was Raquel. And she hadn't mentioned anyone else. Arla asked, "Sam, who's Jess?"

"Jess." Sam mumbled again, eyes closing.

Glancing at the monitor on Dean's finger, Arla took a deep breath. Not good. 79% on room air. No wonder the kid's lips were blue. She could hear Tommy rifling through the SUV for the supplies and hoped he was hurrying. Taking the monitor off Dean's finger, she slid it onto one of Sam's and stared at it while the little device calculated how much oxygen was actually perfusing his bloodstream. She hoped it was more than what was in his brother. One case of severe respiratory distress was bad enough. Pulling out an infrared thermometer, Arla knew a raging fever wasn't really much better.

The two devices finished their calculations and she sighed. There was no satisfaction in being right all the time. His temperature was 104.2 and the oximeter read a shaky 87%. He dropped to 85% every few seconds and fluctuated up and down from there. Arla put the oximeter back on Dean's finger and then checked his temperature too. 100.6. Not as bad as his brother, but certainly not good given his other symptoms. Arla took a second to look around the area.

A pillow on the floor. Both beds unmade and giving evidence of restless attempts to sleep. Empty bottles of Gatorade, a cough syrup bottle on its side, unopened cold medications and a box of candy canes. She smiled sadly at the sight of the Christmas candy, then pushed the wastebasket that reeked of sickness further away. These two boys had been having a very, very bad Christmas Eve. Footsteps pulled her attention back to the present and she was relieved to see Tommy coming toward her, arms full of supplies.

"I'm going back for the cooler. Anything else we need?" He asked, setting the oxygen tanks down and ripping open the plastic packaging around an oxygen mask.

Arla hooked the tubing to one of the oxygen tanks and said, "Bring in those washcloths that Jill gave me. And better look for the fluids."

"What about just calling for an ambulance?" Tommy asked, setting up the other oxygen tank.

"Take too long." Arla said, sliding the mask over Dean's face. She had to push Sam's head up enough to slide the elastic behind Dean's head. Sam frowned, but didn't open his eyes. She looked at Tommy, "You know you'll have to drive a good ten minutes to even get cell reception and it would take them forever to get here. I want to get them stabilized. We're already verging on respiratory arrest with this one," She checked the oximeter on Dean's finger, then motioned to Sam, "and he's headed toward hypovolemic shock."

Tommy handed her the second mask and said, "I'll be right back."

Arla touched Sam's cheek and said, "Sam? I'm going to give you some oxygen to help with your breathing. Just relax and let me do all the work."

He blinked at her, but didn't fight her. His hands were still tightly gripping his brother's shirt and Arla wondered how easy it would be to get them apart when the time came. She slid the mask on and wiped his bangs away from his eyes. They were both so young; younger even than the twins. Arla shook her head, trying to figure out how they'd ended up in the mess they were in. Checking the oximeter, she was relieved to see the numbers were improving a little.

"Arla, I haven't seen that girl anywhere." Tommy said softly, setting the rest of the supplies next to them.

Frowning, she said, "That doesn't seem good. She should have made it here by now, Tommy."

"I agree. Let me help you get them settled and I'll go look for her." Tommy said, sliding a box closer to her. "She looked like she was injured or something. Maybe she's in trouble too." He watched as she selected a bag of fluid from the box and yanked open another package of supplies. "What do you need me to do?"

"End game, I want them both off the floor." Arla said, spiking the bag, "For now, I want to start rehydrating this one," she motioned to Sam, "and get his temperature down. He's been in and out but I don't know how he's going to take it if I try to start this IV."

"I've got him." Tommy nodded his understanding and stepped past her. He knelt next to the kid and asked, "You get a name?"

Arla opened an alcohol swab and said, "Sam. And this is his brother Dean. Couple of kids, Tommy." She said softly and shook her head. "Just a couple of kids."

Tommy touched Sam's shoulder as Arla gently took his wrist. She said, "Sam? It's Arla. I just need to take your arm and start an IV to help you feel better. Ok?"

He stirred at her touch and stiffened. Looking into his eyes, Arla could tell he was confused and scared. She smiled and said, "Sam, I'm here to help you. And help Dean. This is what I need to do to help you both, ok?"

Sam mumbled something behind the mask and Arla leaned closer. She smiled when she finally caught his whispered '_help him_'. Putting her hand to Sam's cheek again, she said very clearly, "I'm helping you both, Sam. He's already breathing a little better with the oxygen and we're going to get you both comfy. But we have to take care of you too. You feel pretty sick, I'm betting, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Ok, just relax your arm and I'm going to give you something to help." Arla waited until she saw some of the confusion fade in his exhausted eyes. His fingers slowly unclenched from his brother's shirt and she smiled, "Thank you. Just relax."

Tommy held his arm steady while Arla searched for a vein. As dehydrated as the kid was, it wasn't easy, but she still managed to get the IV catheter in on one attempt. Sam didn't even flinch when she inserted it. Taping it down, she put the bag of fluid up on the bed behind him. Tommy eased his right arm down to his lap, but Sam kept his left arm around Dean's chest, fingers still clinging to his shirt.

Arla sat back and said, "Ok, let's see if we can get Dean off the floor. He needs to be sitting up, but I want them off this floor."

"Not gonna be easy." Tommy said, studying the brothers. They weren't exactly little kids and he wasn't exactly as young as he'd once been.

"Never said it would be." Arla smiled, checking the oximeter.

Dean was satting in the mid eighties now which was good. Nineties was what she wanted, but given how bad his lungs sounded, she'd be happy if he'd even hit 90%. As soon as they were settled, she needed to give him a nebulizer treatment to loosen up the crap in his lungs. She stood up and shook her head. There were only three pillows in the room. And they all were nasty, stained and without pillow cases. That would not do.

"Tommy, while I get another line started on Dean, can you go find our pillows. And grab the bedding." She started opening another package of IV tubing. Tommy rose and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he walked by.

By the time he'd come back inside, she had an IV running and had talked Sam into relinquishing his death grip on his brother. He was limp as a noodle as she helped him slide out from behind Dean. He stared at her, watching as she kept a hand against Dean's chest to hold him up. Tommy made a pile of four pillows on the bed behind them, then leaned down to help her. It took a few tries and wasn't nearly as patient comfort focused as she would have liked, but they didn't drop him.

Arla leaned Dean back against the pillows with her favorite ivory satin pillowcases as Tommy lifted his legs up onto the bed. They worked quickly to get him settled. Arla hung the IV bag on an exposed nail in the wall behind the bed where a long ago stolen piece of cheap art had doubtless once hung and Tommy yanked off the sheet and ratty blanket from the bed. He unfolded their spare sheets and blanket they'd used while visiting at his brother's house for the holiday.

Pulling the blanket up over Dean's chest, Arla was relieved to see his eyes were open. He was frowning and she could see the panic in his eyes quickly switch to suspicion and wariness. Something about the way he looked assessingly at her and Tommy made Arla realize he could be a very dangerous man. But right now, she knew he looked dangerous for only one reason. Because he had no idea who they were or where his brother was.

She smiled and held her hands out in a calming manner as he started trying to push himself up off the bed. Arla said, "Dean, it's ok. My name is Arla and this is my husband Tommy. I'm a doctor and I'm here to help you and your brother."

Dean blinked at her, breathing increasing as he fought the confusion and illness. She glanced down at Sam who was looking up at his brother. He started moving, trying to get up. Tommy had already walked behind her and was reaching down to help him. Arla looked back at Dean and said, "Sam's right here, Dean. He's ok."

She reached over and grabbed the IV bag as Sam dragged himself to his feet. Tommy tried to hold him up as the kid wavered. Arla watched as Dean's eyes widened and he reached out a hand toward his brother. Sam grabbed at Dean's shirt again as he sat down on the edge of the bed, head lowered in exhaustion. Dean pulled at the oxygen mask on his face then put his hand on the back of Sam's head.

Arla was about to put the mask back in place, but realized he was just trying to talk to his brother. Dean's voice was weak and ragged as he spoke, "Sammy, let her...help...you...ok?"

Sam nodded, hand still on his brother's chest. He reached up with his other hand and put the mask back where it belonged on Dean's face.

They were killing her. Arla rolled her eyes at the sight of two miserable, sick boys trying to outdo each other in taking care of the other. They were adorable and frustrating. Because they both needed just to stop and let someone else take care of them. From the way they were acting, though, she had the feeling that they weren't used to doing anything but taking care of themselves; and each other. Again, she was suspicious they might not have too much else in their lives but each other.

Dean met her eyes and nodded, patting Sam on the arm. She knew Dean had just given her permission. She nodded back and said, "Tommy, let's get him in bed."

Tommy helped pull Sam to his feet again and Arla saw Dean watching every move with the same eagle eyes that she'd used when her girls were learning to walk, to drive, to start dating. She had a feeling he was the older brother. She motioned to Tommy and grabbed the second oxygen tank and IV bag. They headed around the other side of Dean's bed; big brother watching every single step of the way.

He didn't smile at her, but there was tremendous relief in his deep green eyes when they eased Sam down next to him. Arla had quickly decided it would probably be simpler if she kept them next to each other. If she didn't, they were going to be trying to get out of bed every five minutes to check on the other one. And she'd rather not have to pick either of them up again. Tommy handed her the last of their pillows and she slid it behind Sam who relaxed against it with a gentle sigh. He tilted his head toward his brother, then settled.

Arla nodded, glad they'd at least got them both off the floor. She felt a little more hopeful now that she'd seen both of the boys conscious. Dean was still watching her carefully and she almost laughed. She'd taken care of patients before who had overprotective family members watching her every move, but she'd never had to deal with a patient also being the overprotective family member. It was time she took a quick minute to get to know her second patient.

Walking back around the bed, she smiled as Dean's sharp eyes followed her the entire time. She sat down next to him and held out her hand. "I'm Arla Pender." Dean shook her hand and she motioned behind her, "This is my husband Tommy."

"Dean Winchester." He said, then broke out coughing. It took him a minute to catch his breath and she watched the numbers on the pulse oximeter go down, then finally back up.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Arla said, "Now, I'm going to give you some instructions that I expect for you to follow. I am a doctor with twenty years of experience. And I say that in order to make it very clear that _my _instructions are what we will be adhering to."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak.

Arla continued, "You and your brother are both very ill and very concerned about each other. Which is great. But now I am here and I'm going to take care of you both and I need you each to do what I say so that I can get you back on your feet. Understood?"

Dean nodded.

"Good. Right now I want you to rest while I concentrate on your brother." She checked the monitor again. "I'm going to give you a breathing treatment in a few minutes, but we need to do something about Sam's fever."

"Thank you." Dean whispered, giving her a very quick smile.

"You're welcome." She patted him on the shoulder, watching his eyes close. She rose, turned to Tommy and said softly, "Maybe you should go look for that girl now."

"Ok. Keep the door locked while I'm gone." Tommy said, handing her the stack of brand new green washcloths. "Be careful."

Arla nodded, "You too, honey."

* * *

><p>Raquel stood just outside the door and held her breath. She wasn't sure what to do now. She'd been hoping, expecting, that the newcomers would call an ambulance and that everyone would leave the motel. Before it was too late. Now it looked like no one was leaving and that was unacceptable. Because she had no idea when he was going to show up and she couldn't let these people get hurt.<p>

It was time for plan B.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow...this one got really long! :) As always, much appreciation and virtual cookies or whatever you like best to all of you fantastic people taking the time to read this little story. Next chapter we may find out a little more about Raquel...and who she is so afraid of. Oh, and probably some more lovely caring brother moments. Cuz I don't know about you, but those are the moments I love best on the show! Love to hear your thoughts! :)<strong>

**PS: A big thanks to Taraneh and C1 for the guest reviews! I can't send you private message thank you's, but wanted to let you know I appreciate your reviews. And C1, thanks for reviewing my other story, House Arrest! Much appreciated! :) **


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi! So I had internet issues all day yesterday which didn't let me get this posted. Today has been sketchy too, so I'm hoping this works! :) **

**Thank you to C1, Taraneh and Tricia for the nice guest reviews to ch 6! **

**Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>1000 PM Christmas Eve<em>  
><em>Motel<em>

Tommy knocked on the motel room door and waited for Arla to unlock it for him. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the empty parking lot. The entire area seemed deserted and he'd seen no sign of the woman who had flagged them down on the side of the highway. Despite the fact that everything was quiet, there was no denying the tickle of wrongness he felt in his gut. Something was not right. Looking back at the room, he saw movement through the thin curtain over the window, then the door was cautiously opened. Arla's expression was relieved when she saw him.

"Did you find Raquel?" Arla whispered, looking behind him as he stepped into the room.

"No sign of her." Tommy closed the door and locked it. He glanced over at the bed, "They asleep?"

"For now." Arla sighed, rubbing her neck and looking back up at him, "Did you go back to the highway..."

"Yes. I looked everywhere between here and the road. And all the other motel rooms. Nothing. No sign of her." Tommy shrugged, "Something doesn't seem right about this."

Arla frowned and said, "It's all very strange."

Tommy watched as she crossed the room back to her patients. He'd watched her take care of hundreds of people over the years. Sick, injured, young, old. And she always did it without question or prejudice. Always with a gentle hand and sweet spirit. He still counted himself tremendously blessed to have met and married her. She was a good balance to his natural born suspicious mind. Speaking of which, Tommy shook his head and tried to set aside his concern over the missing woman and the strange circumstances. Arla had the cooler of melting ice and water sitting next to her and was replacing the washcloths that she'd placed against the fevered kid's forehead and neck.

"How're they doing?" Tommy asked softly, standing at the foot of the bed. They looked pretty awful to him, but he wasn't the doctor.

Arla checked the kid's temperature, then rose. She joined him and glanced at the thermometer. Shaking her head, she looked up at him and whispered, "I've got them stabilized. For now. Sam's fever is still hovering right at 104 and he's not resting well. His brother's breathing is better since I gave him a neb treatment and he's sleeping at least."

"What are you thinking?"

"That they need more treatment than I can give them here." Arla said, "The fluids and oxygen are helping, but they need antibiotics. I think they've both got pneumonia."

Tommy grimaced. He'd suffered through that a few years ago himself. He asked, "Should I go and try to make a call? Get an ambulance now that they're stabilized?"

"Either that or we just take them into town ourselves. That would be quicker." Arla said, then touched his elbow and drew him across the room. She waved her hand around and stared at him with those empathetic eyes of hers. She said, "Tommy, look around."

"It's a mess." He acknowledged, "Looks like my dorm room back in college."

Arla rolled her eyes, and her smile faded quickly as she whispered, "There is one can of soup, a box of crackers and a lot of empty fast food packages. No other food. Dirty laundry and some medicine. Nothing else. I'm willing to bet they don't have any money either."

"And?" He prompted.

"And how are they going to pay a hospital bill?"

"That's not exactly our problem." He shook his head, "If they need a hospital, then we need to get them there."

Arla nodded, "I agree. I just think maybe we should keep our options open. I can call in some prescriptions and maybe save them a few dollars they don't seem to have..."

Tommy didn't even have to ask what she was thinking. Because after forty-three years of marriage, he knew. He said, "Arla, we have no idea who they are or what is going on. There are a lot of weapons in this room. From a purely suspicious retired police officer's perspective, there is something very strange about all of this."

Arla squeezed his arm and said, "From a suspicious retired police officer's wife's perspective, I completely agree."

"But from a retired doctor and never retired _mother's_ perspective," Tommy smiled knowingly, "you want to have the whole story before you make any decisions. _And_ you want to take them home."

Arla sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, "Tomorrow is _Christmas_, Tommy. They don't have any money or any place to go."

"How do you know that?" He rolled his eyes, wrapping his arm around her.

"Why would they be staying in an abandoned motel on Christmas Eve if they had somewhere to go? In an abandoned motel, with no food," Arla frowned, "and so sick that they couldn't even get off the floor to get into bed?" She pointed at Sam and added, "He was holding his brother up so he could _breathe_, Tommy. What do you think they were going to do if we hadn't come when we did?"

"Alright, alright, I hear you." Tommy nodded, "But I want some answers before we even think about inviting them over for Christmas dinner, Arla."

"Honey," Arla hurried back toward the bed as Sam started fumbling with his mask. "I don't think they're going to feel up to eating Christmas dinner."

Tommy sighed and said, "I still want answers."

"I know. And I agree." Arla helped Sam roll to his side, holding a basin for him as he started throwing up. She looked back over at Tommy and said, "As soon as they can make it ten minutes without acute shortness of breath or vomiting, you can interrogate them, dear."

Tommy grimaced as the kid hurled his guts up. From the looks of it, it might be awhile before he got to interrogate them.

* * *

><p><em>1000 PM Christmas Eve<br>__Five miles north of motel_

"You have to help me, Mallory." Raquel begged, "I'll do anything, _anything_, but you have to help me keep Gethen away."

Mallory shook her head, long straight hair swinging over her shoulders. She looked understanding but helpless. Her voice low, Mallory asked, "What do you expect me to do? You think I have some kind of control over him?"

Raquel lowered her head to her hands and said, "No. None of us do."

"That's right." Mallory shrugged, "So you might as well chill out, sweetie. Because Gethen is going to come and take whatever he wants. Just like he always does."

"I can't let him."

Mallory shook her head, hand on her hip. She sighed and said, "Look, Raquel, I know you're new at this. I know this is the first time for you and that, well, that you're still adjusting to everything." Her smile was understanding, "It took me a long time too. But I'm going to save you a little heartache and frustration. And a whole lot of pain. No one likes it, but we have no choice. You need to give Gethen what he wants and he'll leave you alone."

"I don't want to be left alone. I want to be _free_." Raquel whispered, shivering in the breeze. "I just can't...I can't let this happen. Those are innocent people back at that motel, Mallory."

"Yeah and we were innocent people once, too." Mallory raised an eyebrow. "And now we're not."

Raquel looked at the other woman and saw both understanding and defeat in her eyes. Mallory had been working for Gethen for a very long time. She touched Raquel's arm and said, "I know what you're thinking, sweetie. I do. I see the hope; the rebellion in your bright little eyes. I had that in my eyes for awhile too. But it died. Like everything dies."

"I can't just give up." Raquel whispered.

"Yes you can." Mallory shook her shoulders, expression dead serious, "And you will. Because if you try this, if you try anything crazy, he is going to..."

"What?" Raquel laughed bitterly, "What's he going to do to me? Kill me?"

"He won't kill you, Raquel." Mallory said solemnly, "He will _hurt_ you. In ways you can't even imagine."

Raquel turned away and crossed her arms across her chest, staring into the distance. She knew Mallory was right. But she couldn't let four innocent people die because she wasn't brave enough to stand up to Gethen. She knew she couldn't hope that Mallory would help her. She might even have just given Mallory reason to betray her to Gethen when he arrived, but it was too late to change anything.

"Raquel?"

"What?" She turned around to look back at Mallory.

Mallory stared at her, shoulders slumped. After a long moment, she said, "Look. I can't...I just can't help you. I tried to help someone before and...it was bad. For him and for me. But what I _will _do is let you know as soon as he arrives. That will give you a little time. So what you need to do right now is go back to that motel and get those people out of there before Gethen finds out about them. That's the best you can do, best you can hope for right now."

Raquel knew Mallory was taking a huge chance just by offering to give her the heads up. She smiled and nodded. Reaching out a hand, she squeezed Mallory's hand and said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Mallory said, but smiled briefly. "Just go save those people, Raquel."

Raquel turned around and started running.

* * *

><p><em>1015 PM Christmas Eve<em>  
><em>Motel<em>

Dean woke from a deep but restless sleep and immediately felt the horrible tightness in his chest, the raw burning in his throat and the uncomfortable warmth of fever. His mind was slow and groggy, but it didn't take long for him to remember where he was and why he felt like hammered crap. And, more importantly, to remember why he'd been pulled from sleep.

Sam was calling out for Jessica again.

Blinking in the dim light of the motel room, he saw an older man sitting at the table, staring out the window. Couldn't remember his name, but vaguely remembered seeing his face earlier. The guy had a bushy white mustache and hair that was grey-white and wispy. Looked a little like Einstein, Dean mused, turning to look to his left. He saw the doctor, Arla, sitting next to Sam. Her forehead was wrinkled in worry as she stared down at him, adjusting the washcloth on his forehead as he moved restlessly in the throes of his nightmare.

Sam's mumbles were muffled by the oxygen mask that he was currently trying to pull off. His eyes were wide open as he stared up at the ceiling. Dean cursed, knowing exactly what Sam thought he was seeing up there. Arla was speaking softly, trying to calm him, but she wasn't getting anywhere. Dean reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sam's shoulder, giving him a shake. He pulled off his own oxygen mask, realizing as soon as he did exactly how much the oxygen was actually helping his miserable breathing. But he could manage for a few minutes.

"Sam." He called out, voice barely audible. Coughing and then clearing his throat, he raised his voice enough that when he called Sam's name again, his brother instantly turned and looked up at him.

But they weren't out of the woods yet. Dean may have caught his attention, but Sam's horrified eyes turned back to the ceiling as he started fighting to sit up and get the mask off again. Arla was gently pushing him down, and Dean put a hand out toward her.

He said more sharply than he intended, "Leave him alone."

Arla backed off, questioning eyes meeting his. At the moment, he wasn't interested in her professional opinion. He was more interested in waking his brother up all the way. Dean pulled the mask off Sam's face and turned his head away from the ceiling. Sam was reaching up, trying to fight Dean's hands off. From his position sitting up against the pillows, Dean found it difficult to keep his balance and hold onto him. Didn't help that he was short of breath and coughing.

"Dean," Arla's voice was gentle, "it's the fever. He's been in and out and..."

"It's a nightmare." Dean shook his head, slapping Sam's cheek. "Come on, Sam, wake up." He was too weak to yank his brother upright, and Sam's breathing sounded worse than his did at the moment. Dean looked up at Arla, "Help him sit up, please..."

Tommy appeared at her side and together they managed to get Sam upright against the headboard. He fought them every step of the way, shouting Jessica's name. Once he was sitting up, Dean leaned closer and said, "Sam, calm down."

"No! Dean, she's burning...the fire..." Sam's breathless voice was panicked as he reached out a shaking hand to grab at Dean's arm; still staring up at the ceiling. "Please, Dean, help her…"

"It's over, Sam. It's just a nightmare." Dean shook his head, repeating words he'd said so many times lately. Dean could tell Sam was awake, just not completely alert yet. His gasping breaths were starting to scare Dean. He put his hand against Sam's chest and said, "You gotta calm down and take some slow breaths. You with me?"

Sam stared at him and his breathing began to slow under Dean's hand. Dean nodded and ran a hand over his face, glad the crisis was past. After a minute, Sam leaned his head back against the wall. Dean sighed and patted Sam's shoulder, then put his hand against Sam's forehead. Sam squeezed his eyes closed and Dean studied him closely. The circles under his eyes looked black even against the flush of his face.

Dean looked at Arla and said, "He's still burning up."

"You're both running a fever." Arla said, pulling a washcloth from the water in her cooler. She squeezed it out and offered it to him, "I've been using what's left of our ice and his fever has come down a degree; which isn't much I grant you, but it's something. Yours is lower than it was earlier too, but not gone yet."

Dean pressed the washcloth to Sam's face and nodded. After a few seconds though, he had to lower his hand as he turned away, coughing so hard he thought his head was going to explode. Something was pressed into his hand and glanced down, grateful for the tissue. He spit a mouthful of gunk into the tissue, stomach turning at the sensation. Balling up the tissue, he heard Sam groan.

"Sam?" He asked hoarsely, watching as his brother swallowed hard, eyes still closed.

Dean had a bad feeling and was grateful to see Arla was one step ahead of him and already reaching for a plastic basin of some sort. She got it in front of Sam just in time. Cursing under his breath, Dean put his left arm around Sam's shoulders as he hunched forward, vomiting into the basin. There wasn't much in life he hated more than listening to Sam in pain and he was moaning right now like everything hurt. Which, Dean decided, given the beating he'd taken from the poltergeists and the ache of the fever, wasn't surprising.

Sam spat another mouthful into the basin that Arla was holding, his head hanging low as he fought to catch his breath. Dean held onto him so he didn't fall forward, then leaned closer when he heard Sam mumble something. Dean asked, "What?"

"Don't feel good." Sam whispered, wiping his mouth with the back of a shaking hand.

"I know, Sammy." Dean shook his head as Sam coughed, then threw up again.

Dean glanced over at Arla and saw compassion and concern in her blue eyes. She was holding the basin and brushing Sam's sweaty hair out of his face as he retched. Dean's jaw tightened, remembering his mom doing the same thing for him when he'd been sick as a kid. Then he felt even worse realizing that Sam had no idea what it was like to have a mom take care of him when he was sick. He'd only ever had Dean or Dad and Dean started to realize exactly how much Sam had missed growing up.

He tightened his grip around Sam's shoulders and looked at Arla. He asked, "Isn't there something you can do for him?"

"I don't have any medicine with me." Arla shook her head and said, "We really need to get you both out of here so I can get the medications you need."

Dean felt trapped and desperate. If they wound up in a hospital they were going to have to make a break for it once they were feeling better because they had no insurance and no money and no cover story. To make matters worse, the tickle in his throat turned into yet another coughing spree. By the time he caught his breath, Arla had handed the basin to Tommy and was helping Sam sit back against the headboard. She gave Dean another tissue and he spit into it again, disgusted at the nasty mess. Dragging in a wheezing breath, he glanced at Sam, then back at Arla.

Arla smiled and said, "It's ok, Dean. He's getting some fluids from the IV and even if it doesn't seem like much, it's helping rehydrate him."

"He's still throwing up." Dean muttered, coughing again.

"And you're still coughing." Arla said, raising an eyebrow. "Like I said, we need to get you out of here. I can prescribe the antibiotics you both need, something for your cough, and something to help Sam's nausea. Now that you're both more stable, I think we should consider leaving soon."

Dean saw Tommy walking toward him with their last bottle of Gatorade in his hand. The older man smiled and offered it to him. Dean nodded and took it, shocked at how badly his hand was shaking. He took a sip and felt some of the pain ease again. He was finding it hard to think and was afraid he was going to make a mistake. He knew nothing about these people, and as nice as they seemed, one wrong move could land him and Sam in a whole lot of trouble.

Arla's voice interrupted his thoughts, "You boys aren't going to get over this without antibiotics and a lot of rest. Even without a chest x-ray, I think I can be fairly confident in diagnosing you both with pneumonia."

"What?" Dean raised an eyebrow, letting Tommy take the bottle back. "I mean, I'm not surprised about me, I guess. But Sam?"

"He may not be coughing or sound as bad as you," Arla said, "but you can see how short of breath he is and his breath sounds were diminished when I listened to his chest." She reached for the oxygen mask and said, "You both really need to try to get some more rest and keep these on."

"Ok." Dean said, but held up a finger as she motioned to Sam. He elbowed his brother and said, "The doc says the mask goes back on, Sam. Ok?"

Sam nodded and didn't fight when Arla slid the mask back in place then helped him lay back down against the pillow. He rubbed his eyes and dropped his hands to his chest. He looked up at Arla and whispered, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, honey." Arla said, putting another cold washcloth on his forehead. "Just try to rest again, ok?"

He nodded, but turned to Dean and asked, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it morning yet?"

"Nope." Dean grinned, "But we're getting closer. Think we might actually make it."

Sam smiled briefly, then sighed and closed his eyes; pressing a hand against his head.

Looking up at Arla, Dean said, "It's been a really, really long day."

Arla said, "I believe it."

"How'd you end up here, anyway?" Dean asked, coughing into his sleeve and considering reaching for the oxygen mask again. "You guys lost or something?"

"Your friend flagged us down on the side of the highway." Tommy said, pulling a chair closer and handing the bottle of Gatorade back. "Raquel."

Accepting the bottle, Dean frowned, glancing between Arla and Tommy. He asked, "Who?"

"Raquel." Tommy said, sharp eyes narrowing, "You don't know her?"

"Never heard of her." Dean said, taking a sip.

"She said you were her friends and that you needed help." Tommy explained, exchanging a look with Arla. "That's part of why haven't left already. I was trying to find her while Arla got you two settled."

Dean let his head lean back against the pillows, feeling overwhelmingly tired. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep for a month. Glancing between Arla and Tommy he said softly, "I don't know who she was. She's not with us. It's just me and him."

"What are you doing here at this motel?" Tommy asked.

"Tommy!" Arla said, a note of warning in her voice.

Dean thought about the weapons they'd left out in the open. He could tell Tommy knew about them. He had a bad feeling the guy was a cop or something. There was that official air about him. Dean realized he needed to think of a really good cover story and think of it quickly. A knock at the door saved him from having to come up with a convincing lie. He joined Tommy and Arla staring at the door. Swallowing hard, Dean watched as Tommy rose and approached the door, a hand on the gun in his waistband.

His hand itched for his own gun as he glanced down at Sam.

They were so screwed.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh boy! This one had some twists in it. Hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for taking the time to read! :)<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi everyone! Happy New Year! **

**Oh my gosh, guys, I can't tell you how sorry I am for the looong delay on this chapter. I **_**profusely**_ **apologize for leaving you hanging...since last year lol. It is **_**never**_ **my intention to leave everyone on such an awful cliffhanger! I feel terrible for taking so long to update. This week just got insanely crazy busy between family visits, the holiday, and a job interview on Tuesday with a follow up interview on Friday****. Phew. The happy news is that I GOT THE JOB! :D And, even better, the job schedule is going to give me **_**lots**_ **of writing time as opposed to my last job.**

**So, sincerely begging your forgiveness for the delay, without further ado, here is the long awaited Chapter 8!**

* * *

><p><em>1015 PM Christmas Eve<em>

Raquel ran back toward the motel; Mallory's words echoing in her brain. _No choice. Give him what he wants. He'll hurt you. _

_Go save those people_.

Realizing in a heartbeat that she should already have been standing at the door of room number 3, Raquel gasped. She wasn't moving. And she _couldn't _move. It was as if she were frozen in place. Fear gripped her heart with icy tendrils as she waited to see what was preventing her from moving. Never before, not even during this last hellish year trapped at the motel, had she ever felt so alone.

The terrible thought crossed her mind that maybe Mallory had betrayed her, but Raquel pushed it aside immediately. Even if they'd only seen each other a precious few times during the past year and she barely knew the girl, Raquel knew Mallory's words had been sincere. Mallory had promised to let her know when Gethen arrived. She wouldn't lie about that. Raquel wrapped her arms around herself and shivered even though she wasn't cold. Someone had stopped her. Someone was holding her in place, keeping her from going to the motel.

"You've made a very silly mistake."

Raquel turned slightly to the right and sucked in a shuddering breath when she saw the monster that was standing just a few feet away. His eyes were hollow, empty right down to the place his soul had once been. Smiling with bloodless lips, the man, or creature, Raquel wasn't sure which, stepped toward her; his movements uneven and jerking as he walked forward.

Her mouth went dry. She knew there were others who were in Gethen's service, but she'd never seen any one except Mallory. And the only time she'd seen Gethen had been the day he'd ripped her husband's body to shreds in front of her. This monster reminded her of Gethen, though. The sheer evilness emanating from the skeletal being astounded her. It stopped in front of her, dropping a bag to the ground. Raquel saw a pale white skull roll out of the bag. It was a bag of bones and she had a horrible feeling she knew whose bones were now lying in the dirt in front of her.

"I believe this is a friend of yours." The creature said, its awful lips twitching in what it probably considered to be a smile. "Mallory served Gethen well. Until she met you, that is. You corrupted her."

She looked up at the creature as it raised a skeletal hand toward her. The long, bone white fingers burned like ice as they touched her face. Raquel couldn't help but scream as his finger tore across her cheek. The thing smiled, empty eyes widening with pleasure. It leaned closer still and Raquel cringed away from the smell of blood and rotting corpses on its hot breath. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to forget the sight of torn flesh that hung from the corner of his mouth.

Its voice sounded like a hollow echo through a deserted canyon when it spoke, "You should have done what you were told. What did you think you were going to accomplish?"

Hot tears streamed down her face and she gasped when the creature grabbed the back of her neck. He lit a match and held it up in front of her eyes. He said, "Your friend will pay for her rebellion."

* * *

><p><em>1020 PM Christmas Eve<br>__Motel_

Arla stayed where she was at the side of the bed. Tommy approached the door, hand on his Beretta. The knock on the door had surprised them all and her heart was still pounding. She wasn't normally a jumpy kind of person, and as much as she was worried about her patients, she did agree with her husband that something seemed strange about the situation. The lateness of the hour, the missing woman, the weapons, and now a knock on the door had her wondering if, as Tommy had insinuated, they had stepped in the middle of something very bad.

Tommy carefully opened the door and she glanced at the brothers. Dean was staring at the door; his eyes were narrowed and as wary as Tommy's. His muscles were tense and despite being barely able to sit upright, he seemed ready to jump into action. Arla wondered if he'd been in the military. Because, just from the way he was analyzing the situation like a trained professional, he reminded her of Tommy and his hypervigilant cop buddies. She was willing to bet he was wishing he had one of his weapons in his hand. He closed his right hand in a fist, but Arla saw his left hand squeeze his brother's shoulder.

Gentle and reassuring.

He was a study in contradictions, Arla decided. She looked back over at Tommy and saw that his hand was still on his gun. He hadn't drawn it yet. Arla still couldn't see who was outside the door, but she heard Tommy ask, "Who are you?"

"Someone who is trying to help you."

It was a woman's voice and Arla frowned. It didn't sound like the woman they had met on the side of the road. She glanced at Dean and saw no recognition in his eyes at the sound of the woman's voice. So _he_ didn't know who she was either.

Interesting.

The woman said, "Please, let me in. I need to talk to you. You're all in danger."

Tommy backed up a little and opened the door wider. He took a quick glance around outside as the woman walked inside. Arla could have sworn that the temperature had dropped by ten degrees. Shivering, she studied the woman. She was much younger than Raquel, but her eyes showed a lifetime of suffering. Her body was vibrating with tension and her hand shook as she brushed her long black hair out of her eyes.

It was shocking how many young people they were running into who appeared to be living incredibly hard lives, Arla mused as she studied the girl. Arla walked forward toward her as Tommy locked the door. Smiling reassuringly, she said, "My name is Arla Pender and this is my husband, Tommy. What's your name, honey?"

The girl's dark eyes took in the room, the brothers, then finally met Arla's. Licking her lips, she said, "I'm Mallory Beech and you all need to leave right now."

"What is going on here?" Tommy asked, looking from Mallory and then over to Dean. "What are you kids all mixed up in? Drugs?"

"Drugs?" Mallory's eyes widened and she laughed without humor, "You think this is about drugs?"

Arla could see that Tommy's considerable patience was wearing thin. Placing a calming hand on his arm, she asked, "Why don't you tell us what's going on, Mallory?"

"Yeah...cuz I...have...no idea." Dean spoke up. It took four breaths for him to get the sentence out, Arla noted in concern. She really wanted to get that oxygen mask back on him.

Mallory took a step forward and waved a hand, "What's going on here is that you all stopped at the wrong motel. And we're trying to help you." She rolled her eyes, "Can you just run? For your lives? Please and thank you."

"We?" Arla asked.

"Yes _we_." Mallory said, voice tight, eyes taking in every corner of the room, unable to focus on anything. "You already met Raquel, didn't you? Well she isn't nearly as smart as she is sweet. She wanted to help those two," she pointed at Dean and Sam, "but she was too scared to talk to them until they were too sick and it was too late to get rid of them. So she got the attention of you Good Samaritans."

Mallory looked at the door, then back at Tommy and Arla. She said, "You need to pack up and run because you picked the wrong place to stay for Christmas."

"Where's Raquel?" Tommy asked. His hand was no longer hovering over his gun, but Arla could tell that he wasn't any less tense or suspicious.

"If she isn't here, she isn't coming. She left before me to come try to get all of you out of here." Mallory said with a grim smile, "I'm a little slow to the party, but I can't stand by and let Gethen kill any more people."

"I don't understand..." Arla never got to finish her statement.

Mallory let out a pained shriek as a burst of flames enveloped her. Arla gasped and took a staggering step backwards, watching the girl's skin burn off and her bones turn to ash. Hand over her mouth, Arla felt weak in the knees as the flames dissipated into nothingness and every trace of Mallory disappeared. It had taken less than two seconds, but that image would remain burned into Arla's memories forever.

Arla looked at Tommy. His expression was every bit as shocked as hers. He shook his head, speechless, his eyes moving between her and the spot where Mallory had been standing just seconds ago. Arla shrugged, mouth trying to form words, but coming up silent. What she'd just seen defied explanation and it had been both terrifying and surreal. Staring at Tommy, she tried to make sense of what had happened. She couldn't. Neither could he. But someone apparently could.

"You...need to get...out of here right...now."

Arla and Tommy turned and stared at Dean. He'd moved his legs off the edge of the bed and was sitting there wheezing and coughing, drenched in sweat. Looking up at them, he waved a hand toward the door and said, "Go now. We'll...take care...of this."

Arla's laugh was a bit hysterical. She asked, "You'll take care of what?"

"I know this looks crazy." Sam spoke up when Dean hunched over, coughing. Arla was shocked to see him actually sitting up and trying to get to his feet. He'd taken his own oxygen mask off and said, "But this is kind of what we do."

"What on earth?" Tommy asked, still shaking his head. "What on earth do you do?"

"We take care of monsters, sir." Sam said, pushing himself to his feet and leaning against the wall. Despite the fever, his face went sheet white when he stood.

"Monsters?" Tommy asked incredulously.

Instead of answering, Sam wavered, then immediately went down to his knees, one hand against the bed, the other pressed against his eyes.

Arla shook her head, "You know what? We're not doing this now."

Shaking off the lingering shock, she turned to Dean and put the mask back on his face. Just like his brother, he was trying to push himself to his feet; and, just like his brother, he was losing the battle. He also seemed to be losing the battle to breathe which was far more concerning. Arla pushed him down as he tried to rise yet again. It was painfully easy to hold him down and she could see the frustration in his eyes. And the determination. He was going to fight to get to his feet and do...whatever it was they did about monsters, even if it killed him. And Arla wasn't going to let that happen.

"We are leaving." She said, checking Dean's pulse, then looking up at Tommy, "We're leaving right now. Tommy, start packing."

"Arla..."

"Tommy." She shook her head, concerned by the bounding pulse under her fingers, "We figure it out later. All of it. Right now, we need to get out of here."

Tommy nodded. He said, "I'm going to take a look around first, see if there's anyone else out there."

"Ok." Arla said, pushing Dean back against the pillows. "Then grab what you can. We can come back if we need to; necessities only. It's time we get them to the hospital."

"No." Dean ground out, barely audible over the sound of his own congested lungs.

"Yes." Arla said, her hand against his cheek, making sure he met her eyes. "Dean, there is no option here. You need a hospital." He was still shaking his head and Arla wanted to wring his neck. She went on, "You have no choice. Whatever it is you think you need to do, you _can't _do it right now. You need a hospital."

She paused, seeing that she still hadn't convinced him. Glancing to her right, she realized there was perhaps only one thing that _would _convince him. Arla looked back at Dean and said, "You need a hospital and so does your brother."

That got his attention. He stared at her and she could see the wheels turning as he considered her words. She watched as he took a quick peek at his brother. Determination was replaced with worry. He looked back at her and nodded, losing what little fight he'd had in his eyes. Arla was shocked at the complete trust she saw in his eyes. From what little she knew of him, it was obvious that he wasn't a man who gave his trust easily. She smiled and squeezed his hand.

"We're going to get you both out of here, Dean." Arla said, waving a finger at him. "Stay put."

He nodded again, turning back to watch his brother who had finally given up trying to get back to his feet. His head was down on the bed and it looked like the fight had gone out of him too. Arla was about to head to his side when she heard Tommy walking back into the room. He immediately began to gather some of the scattered belongings and weapons.

Arla asked, "Tommy? Anyone out there?"

"No." He said, continuing to expertly pack the weapons he found. "It's quiet out there. I'd like to leave before that changes."

"Then help me get them out to the car."

* * *

><p><em>1230 AM Christmas Day<br>__Hospital Emergency Room_

Tommy pushed the heavy door open and walked back into the ER. He took a sip of his coffee and looked around for Arla. It had been a hectic place earlier due to a serious car wreck that had come in not long after they'd finally arrived. Since his expertise was certainly not medical interventions, he'd decided it was a good time to sneak out for some coffee. Now, while there was still a bit of activity in one of the ER cubicles, the initial panic seemed to have died down. He headed toward the doctor's charting room and found Arla studying a computer screen and tapping a pen on the counter.

"Hey." He stepped into the room and handed her a cup. "How's it going?"

"Good." Arla smiled, gladly accepting the cup. "Thank you. I needed this. I'm starting to run a little low on energy."

Tommy took another sip and said, "It's been a long day."

"And we thought driving home from your brother's place yesterday was going to give us a relaxing Christmas day at home together." Arla smiled and lifted her coffee cup in a pseudo-toast. "Merry Christmas, Tommy."

"Merry Christmas." He sat down on the edge of the desk next to her and gave her a quick kiss. Tommy glanced at the screen, then asked, "How're they doing?"

"As well as can be expected." Arla took a deep breath and said, "Dr. Walker is still in with the team working on the MVA victim. So it will be awhile before he can look at their results and decide about discharge."

"Think he's going to keep them?"

"I doubt it. It would be stretching the admission criteria to admit them even for observation. They're stable." Arla shrugged, sipping her coffee. "I figure he's going to let them stay till the IV antibiotics finish running."

Tommy nodded, his thoughts wandering back to everything that had happened at the motel. He still couldn't wrap his head around what he'd seen. They'd wasted no time in getting out of there and since arriving at the hospital, Arla had been focused on taking care of her patients so there had been no time to discuss what had happened. But Tommy hadn't forgotten the nightmarish experience of watching a woman go up in flames and then dissolve before his eyes.

"Arla, we need to talk to them." He said, a touch of warning in his voice. "I am fighting every instinct I have right now…"

"I know." Arla interrupted him and sighed, "I get it. I mean, I still can't even wrap my head around what happened back there." She set her cup down and leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes. "But they don't need an interrogation yet, ok? Whatever they're into, or whatever they got in the middle of, they're seriously ill. Let them have a couple hours of sleep at least."

"You realize that this is completely against every bit of training I've ever had?"

"Yes. I do. And I trust your judgement. I'm just asking you to trust me." Arla squeezed his hand, "There's no denying that something very strange is going on, but I think there's probably a good explanation."

Tommy laughed, "You always look on the bright side. Alright. But I'm keeping an eye on them."

Arla glanced over at the computer screen, then back at him. She said, "Actually, that's not a bad idea. I was in there a little while ago and checked on them, but it wouldn't hurt if you took a peek while I wait on Dr. Walker. Dean was sleeping and I finally gave up entertaining the idea that Sam would stay where he belonged."

"Refused to stay in bed?"

"I should have guessed they wouldn't be pleased with the separation." Arla nodded, "Dean's been a touch confused and maybe that's why Sam's been so anxious. I'm sure he would have crawled to his brother's room if we hadn't gotten there in time to help him. He's not exactly steady on his feet right now." She smiled, "He's been sitting with Dean and I think it's probably the best thing for them both. So just go keep an eye on them for me, ok?"

Tommy rose and said, "I'm on it."

"No interrogations."

He grinned, "No interrogations. Promise."

* * *

><p><em>1235 AM Christmas Day<br>__ER_

The sound of a voice on the overhead speakers paging some doctor to the third floor roused Dean from the heaviness of deep sleep. He kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the glorious feeling of being able to breathe. The gurney he was propped up on wasn't exactly comfortable and his chest and throat were burning as if they'd been rubbed raw, but he couldn't complain. Because he actually felt like he was getting oxygen to all the right places again. Someone had changed out the oxygen mask for a nasal cannula which was just a little less like torture. He also had a dull headache and wasn't sure he could move if he wanted to, but at least he could breathe.

He tried to gather his muddled thoughts. His memories of the past 24 hours seemed like broken pieces of glass and Dean wondered if he'd ever be able to put them back together. Vaguely, he remembered the long, miserable trip from the motel; he'd struggled to breathe the entire trip while Sam had fought to keep from throwing up. They'd both somehow managed to survive and had then endured assessments, breathing treatments and diagnostic tests since arriving in the ER. He saw that he still had an IV running and a blood pressure cuff on his left arm.

The last thing he remembered clearly was Arla telling him to get some rest. What he _couldn't_ remember was what she'd said about Sam. Frowning, Dean struggled to open his eyes. The lights in the room were dimmed and he blinked a few times to bring things into focus. Even half-drugged and barely awake, the gnawing panic of not knowing where Sam was began to rise in his gut.

Once he was able to see the room clearly, some of the panic disappeared. Because Sam was sitting in an uncomfortable looking recliner right next to him. Rolling his head on the pillow, Dean took a careful look at his brother. Sam was bundled up in his hoodie and jacket, arms wrapped around himself; he had dark shadows under his eyes and from the pinched expression on his face, Dean knew he was in pain, but at least the flush of fever wasn't so bright on his cheeks. There was an IV pole beside him and a cup of ice chips on the bedside table.

Breathing out a relieved sigh, Dean considered closing his eyes and just going back to sleep, but then Sam opened his eyes. He stared blankly at Dean for a second, then closed his eyes. His eyes opened again a split second later and this time it was obvious he'd realized Dean was awake.

"Hey." Sam said, his voice hoarse and quiet. He rubbed his eyes and asked, "How are you feeling?"

Truth be told his throat was raw, his chest ached and he just wanted to sleep. But considering Sam looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with the Incredible Hulk, Dean decided not to whine about it. So he just mumbled, "I feel drugged."

"Think they gave you something for the cough." Sam nodded, with a quick smile. "And the breathing treatments seem to have helped. You're not wheezing anymore."

"Yeah, it's nice to be able to breathe again." Dean said, then waved a hand, "They let you out already?"

Sam shook his head, still resting against the back of the recliner. He didn't seem inclined to move any time soon, either. He waved a thumb at the IV pole and said, "Can't go anywhere till that's done."

"But they let you roam the halls?" Dean asked. When Sam didn't answer, Dean read between the lines and asked, "You're not supposed to be out of bed are you?"

Sam shrugged, closing his eyes and whispering, "I needed to make sure you were ok."

Dean rubbed his aching chest and shook his head at his brother's stubbornness. Sam was sitting up and didn't look like he was ready to hurl at the drop of a hat, but he still looked awful. Dean asked, "You done puking? They gave you something, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is it helping?"

Another shrug. Sam waved a hand in the general direction of the cup on the table and said, "The ice has stayed down so far."

"Uh huh. I guess that's something at least." Dean said doubtfully. "They give you anything else? Looks like your head still hurts. You're no good to me if you're in too much pain to move."

Sam snorted, "Everything hurts. I feel like I've pulled every muscle in my body and I'm not sure I'm ever going to eat again."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised." Dean nodded, then asked, "So, where's the doc and her husband? They leave us here?"

"No. She's waiting to talk to the ER doctor." Sam said, then coughed harshly into his sleeve.

"Why?"

"They're talking about discharging us."

"Good. Sooner the better because we have a new hunt." Dean said. His thoughts went back to what had happened at the motel. He said, "That girl was a spirit."

"I know."

"And someone burned her bones."

"We need to get back there and find out what's going on." Sam said, eyes opening as he started coughing again. He grimaced, swallowing hard, then said, "There was another woman, remember? I told you I saw someone."

"The mysterious Raquel?" Dean asked, pushing himself a bit further up against the pillows. Even that movement left him exhausted and breathless. He said, "The woman the doc and her husband were talking about?"

Sam nodded, "I remember her talking to me. She said she was going for help. If it hadn't been for her…"

"We'd still be on the floor." Dean said, "I get it."

"We have to help her."

"And figure out who she and...what was her name?"

"Mallory."

"Yeah, we need to figure out what they're so afraid of." Dean couldn't fight back a coughing spell this time and cringed at the sharp pain in his chest. Sam leaned forward and grabbed the cup of ice with a shaking hand, extending it toward Dean. He took it with a hand that was only a pinch steadier than his brother's. Managing to get an ice chip in his mouth without spilling the entire cup, Dean crunched on it and swallowed. The ice felt like heaven on his throat.

Sam didn't sit back in the recliner, instead resting an arm against the edge of the gurney as he said, "You don't think this has anything to do with those poltergeists, do you?"

"No clue." Dean shrugged, "Seems like a lot of unnatural ghostly activity in this area, though. We're going to have to go back to that crappy motel, aren't we?"

"Yes. And we have to leave Tommy and Arla out of this." Sam said, shaking his head.

"I know." He frowned, thinking about them. The last thing he wanted was to involve civilians in something like this. "They sure picked the wrong people to help."

Sam nodded and said, "We can't involve them more than they already are. They're great people."

"They are. And I don't want them to get hurt, either." Dean said, anticipating Sam's next statement. He coughed again, then shook another ice cube into his mouth. Almost dropping the cup, he was grateful when Sam took it back and set it on the table. Crunching on the ice, Dean said, "So we just need to get out of here and keep them out of it. Because there's no point in even trying to explain what we do. They're not going to believe it."

"I've got the keys." Sam said. His voice grew softer and more unsteady, "We could go back to the motel. Lay low for a few days...till we're back on our feet. But we don't have any cash left and I don't know…"

Sam broke off and closed his eyes, swallowing hard again. As he leaned forward a bit further, fingers gripping the sheets, Dean sighed. The way he felt, he wasn't sure he could even attempt a great escape. And Sam wasn't exactly inspiring him with confidence at the moment. He looked like he was about to pass out. Dean closed his eyes and tried to think clearly. They had a hunt waiting for them. _Another hunt_. They had absolutely no idea what it was out there in the dark. Making matters even worse, two civilians were now involved.

"I wish Dad were here."

Sam had spoken so softly that he almost hadn't heard him. Dean ran a hand over his eyes and shifted uncomfortably against the pillows. Sam was staring blankly at the floor, head hanging as if it were too heavy to hold up any more. Considering how heavy his own head felt, Dean couldn't say he was surprised.

Sam wasn't the only one who wished Dad was around. But Dean didn't want to think about Dad and why he wasn't with them or answering their calls. The deep aching pit inside him seemed to widen and threatened to drag him down. They'd been on their own for weeks now, trying to get reacquainted, to deal with past hurts, to deal with Jessica's murder and to look for Dad. Dean knew they'd fallen back into rhythm with only a few bumps along the way and he was grateful.

But the nagging worry about where Dad was had been hanging over them and, given Sam's desperation to avenge Jessica's death, Dean felt like everything was one wrong move from falling apart. He saw Sam wipe a shaking hand over his eyes and cursed under his breath. They weren't up to another hunt right now. They'd barely survived the last one.

Sam looked up at him and Dean could see the same uncertainty that he felt reflected in Sam's eyes. He also saw the question _what are we going to do_ written all over Sam's face. The unspoken question was tempered with an absolute, unwavering trust in Sam's eyes. And that utterly terrified Dean. Because Sam expected him to have the answers, as he had since they were kids. It was staggering that, even now, even after a few rough years away from each other, that Sam still looked to him for guidance.

And he was waiting, as sick as he was, to be told to go get the car and get them out of the hospital. Dean knew without a doubt that if he gave him the word, Sam would drag them both out the door. But then what? They still had nowhere to go and their wallets hadn't been miraculously replenished. Go back to the motel and wind up getting sicker?

"Look, we're not going anywhere for awhile." Dean said finally. He saw Sam blinking back tears and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll figure it out, Sammy. Just get some rest for now, ok? I'll figure it out."

Sam nodded, then closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his head against his arms on the gurney. Dean shifted slightly until his hand just barely brushed up against Sam's sleeve. Closing his eyes, Dean sighed and hoped he'd be able to figure everything out when he woke up later. Because, at the moment, he had absolutely no idea what they were going to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks everyone for reading! I hope the long wait was worth it. I promise that the next chapter will not take so long. My week will be going back to normal after all the holidayfamily stuff so I should be back to every day/every other day posts. Thanks so much for sticking with this story! You are all awesome! :)**

**Once again, special thanks to C1, L.H. Taraneh and my other guest reviewers for your awesome posts for ch7! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys! In honor of it being SPN Tuesday...and very much sad we didn't have a new eppy tonight...here is a new chapter to help fill the void. January 20th sure is a long way away! ;)**

* * *

><p><em>1250 AM Christmas Day<br>ER_

Tommy took a silent step backwards and leaned against the wall, thinking about what he'd just witnessed. Walking up to the little ER room, he hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but found it difficult to walk away from the brothers' conversation. Less than ten minutes of conversation and he had just learned more about the Winchester brothers than he'd ever hoped to. The scene that had played out before his surprised eyes left him with an entirely new perspective on the unfortunate young men they'd found in an abandoned motel on Christmas Eve.

He turned at the sound of quiet footsteps. Arla yawned as she joined him. She peeked into the room and he saw the compassion soften the lines of exhaustion around her eyes. She whispered, "Those poor kids. They're exhausted."

"So are we." Tommy couldn't stop his own yawn. He smiled, "We all need a good long sleep."

Arla brushed her greying hair back from her face and asked, "Were they asleep when you got here or…"

"They had an interesting conversation," Tommy interrupted her, drawing her away from the door. He said, "And no, I didn't interrogate them."

"You were eavesdropping, weren't you?" Arla raised a knowing eyebrow.

Tommy said, "I was gathering intel."

Arla narrowed her eyes. She folded her arms across her chest and asked, "And what intel did you gather?"

"You may be right about them."

"Really?" Arla smiled. "I was right?"

"I'm not saying there still aren't questions I want to ask," Tommy said before she got too excited about being right, "but they don't seem like cold blooded killers or drug dealers."

"What changed your mind?"

Tommy thought about the concern in Dean's eyes when he'd looked at Sam. Their plans to return to the motel. Their gratitude both to Raquel, who they didn't seem to know at all, and to him and Arla. He said, "Several things, actually. They really do seem to be going through a rough time, Arla, and it's more than just being sick. I don't know exactly what's going on, but Sam said something about their dad."

Arla frowned, "What did he say?"

"That he wished he was here." Tommy said, "I'm wondering...I mean, who knows, but maybe he's dead. The kid seemed really upset and the way Dean responded…"

"Like he's going to find a way to make everything right? No matter what?" Arla asked softly. "I could see that from everything he did. The nightmare Sam had? Dean took it all in stride. It was obvious that wasn't the first time Sam's had a nightmare like that. Something terrible happened to a girl named Jess, Tommy. And whatever happened to her, to their father, to them; whatever they're into, those kids have the weight of the world on their shoulders."

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. Too many problems, too many questions that needed answers. He said, "It's not just each other they're worrying about, either. They're worried about us."

"Us?" Arla shook her head, "What are you talking about?"

"They were talking about trying to protect us, keep us out of it. Whatever _it _is. They were talking about ghosts and poltergeists. And not like they were things you see in movies. Like they were _real._" Tommy explained, thinking back to their conversation. He shook his head, "Which, after what we saw happen to Mallory, I guess I'm not finding it so difficult to believe in ghost right at this moment. They were talking about leaving and going back to the motel, Arla."

She frowned, "Why would they…"

"To protect us, to take care of whatever is out there. To figure out what happened to that girl."

"They're not up to going anywhere. You didn't give them back the keys, did you?" Arla started at him, then sighed, "You did, didn't you?"

"Sam basically took them from my hand as soon as I parked it. Neither of them were too happy that I even had the keys." He remembered the mini-skirmish that had occurred when they'd been preparing to leave the motel. Dean hadn't been happy at all to relinquish the keys to him. There hadn't been much of a choice since their SUV was packed with supplies and Christmas presents and neither brother had been up to driving. Tommy knew Arla wouldn't be able to handle the monstrous Impala. Even if she had, he would have made sure he was the one driving. Not too often he got the opportunity to get behind the wheel of a classic like that. Shaking his head, he went on, "Sam said they don't have any cash left and that they could just go back to the motel and lay low. They were going to sneak out of here."

Arla's eyebrows rose, "Are you serious?"

"Yes. I think it was just how bad Sam looked that held Dean back. They wake up, I won't be surprised to see them trying to leave."

"That's not going to happen." Arla said firmly, "They both still need antibiotics, rest, and some healthy food. I didn't see _anything_ healthy in that room, Tommy, just a bunch of fast food wrappers. They try to leave now, without medicine, without taking care of themselves, they're going to wind up in the same mess they were in when we found them. Neither one of them is up to anything except resting."

"I agree." Tommy nodded, "I do. I'm just not sure _they're_ going to be willing to listen."

Arla smiled, "Oh, they'll listen. They don't have any choice _but_ to listen."

* * *

><p><em>1:00 AM Christmas Day<em>

The smoke rising from the bag of Mallory's bones stung Raquel's eyes. She stared at the burning remains and felt her knees weaken. Sliding down to the dirt, Raquel pressed her hands to her face and sobbed. For a year, Mallory had been her only contact. They'd barely known each other, but, given their circumstances, Raquel had considered Mallory a friend. She felt a spray of heat hit her arms as the creature kicked the pile of burning ash. The monster was laughing and clapping its long, skeletal hands as it stood in front of her.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"No, you sicko!" Raquel shouted through her tears, "That was my friend!"

The creature jumped toward her, shoving her backwards into the dirt, its hands wrapping around her throat as it straddled her and blew a hot breath into her face. It leaned close and whispered, "You don't get to have friends."

Raquel almost vomited at the stench and the flying shreds of gore that splattered her face as the thing laughed. She struggled to push the thing off her, but he was much stronger. It grabbed her arms and rose, dragging her backwards so fast her head spun. Cold, harsh metal wrapped around her wrists and Raquel looked in surprise at the cuffs around her wrists. The creature pulled her arms above her head and yanked her to her feet. She scrambled to keep her feet under her as it pulled her against a tree, stretching her arms up so high she had to stand on tip toe. Trying to tug her arms free, she quickly realized he had attached the cuffs to a hook or something high up on the tree.

She was completely trapped.

Raquel stared at the creature in front of her and shook her head, completely confused, "How?"

"Iron." It tilted its head from side to side, as if it were rocking to an unheard beat. "Iron keeps you where you belong."

Iron? That made no sense. Not that anything did anymore. Her world had grown incredibly small over the past year of being trapped at the motel. And the small world was both confusing and terribly lonely. Raquel blinked past the tears as the creature moved out of her line of sight. She'd found a way to come to terms with what had happened to her and Peter last Christmas, but she'd never fully understood why she was trapped at the motel. And nothing had prepared her for the appearance of this creature.

Raquel twisted her arms and tested the bonds. Blowing out a frustrated breath, she gave up. She wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

><p><em>1:30 AM Christmas Day<br>ER_

"Didn't you do that like five minutes ago? Come on, leave him alone." Dean's voice was irritated, but hushed. "He just fell asleep."

Over the pounding in his head, Sam listened to his brother arguing with the nurse and sighed. He didn't really want to move, but figured it would be much simpler if he sat up and let the nurse take his blood pressure or do whatever it was she needed to do. Otherwise, Dean was going to get more and more aggravated and that would only make his headache worse. He tried to lift his head, but found that all he could do at the moment was shift enough to draw Dean's attention.

"Great. You woke him up." Dean said, coughing painfully and glaring at the nurse.

"It's ok." Sam whispered, finally pushing himself up to rest his head against his hand. It took a lot more effort than it should have. He straightened out his left arm to allow the nurse access.

She smiled and gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm. Pulling her stethoscope from around her neck, she said, "Thanks. Sorry to disturb you, but this won't take long. How are you feeling now?"

"He feels like crap." Dean said before Sam had the chance to answer her. "Look at him. Give him some medicine and leave him alone."

"Dean." Sam shook his head. "Leave _her _alone."

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but Dean's demeanor had changed completely in that time. Where he'd been calm, almost relaxed earlier, _probably thanks to the drugs, _Sam mused, now the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth were pronounced. It was clear that he felt lousy and was still short of breath, but it was more than that. Dean looked like a caged animal and that was never a good thing.

The nurse was busy with her notes and Sam met Dean's gaze. He could probably have recited verbatim everything that was going through Dean's mind at that moment: _We need to get out of here. Been here too long. We've got a hunt and we don't even know what's out there. Whatever it is, it's probably killing people. Gotta shake the doc's husband; he's suspicious. But we aren't going anywhere till I know Sam's ok. _

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's raised eyebrow. He cleared his throat and said softly, "I'm fine."

"Mmhmm." Dean didn't look convinced at all.

The nurse spoke up, "Looks like your blood pressure is much better than earlier." She folded up her notes, shot Dean a narrow-eyed glance of warning, then looked back at Sam. She asked, "So, if we all pretend your brother isn't here right now, how are you feeling?"

He smiled, catching Dean's irritated huff. Sam said, "Not great, but better."

"Well that's something." She nodded, then checked the IV. "Dr. Walker should be back in to see you both soon. Your antibiotics are finished and your vital signs are much improved so I'm guessing he's going to let you go soon."

"Super." Dean muttered.

Sam could tell he was still annoyed with the nurse. She didn't seem to notice or care. Figuring she probably had her fair share of difficult patients on a daily basis, Sam watched her go, then turned his attention back to his brother. He asked, "How are we going to handle this?"

"Give 'em an address and have 'em bill us." Dean shrugged, then grinned, "Let's give 'em the address of Mr. Brody. Poltergeist number one. His descendants can foot the bill since we got sick taking care of the after death grudge match their great-granddaddy started."

"I thought you said it was the other one, Perkins, that started it." Sam smiled slightly.

"Whatever. Bill 'em both." Dean mumbled, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, then wearily stared at Sam and asked, "Give it to me straight. You up to ditching this place?"

"I'm ready." Sam nodded, straightening up and trying to look healthy despite the headache, faint nausea and desperate desire to sleep. Dean was staring at him with his eyes narrowed again so Sam had a feeling he wasn't convincing his brother. He said, "Really. Let's get out of here."

"Eager to leave, are you?"

Sam and Dean looked up as the door slid open again. Arla Pender walked in, smiling and giving them both a look that said she knew exactly what they were up to. She went on, "You may be eager, but neither of you have any business going anywhere."

"That nurse said the doc was going to let us go soon." Dean challenged.

Arla nodded, "I'm sure he will. I'm interested to hear your plans for after he discharges you."

"We leave." Dean said, expression not quite a glare, but getting pretty close.

Sam sighed and spoke before Dean could say anything else, "Look, we appreciate your help. We do. But we really need to go."

"Where?"

The tension in the room increased. Dean was ready to fight. Arla was trying to make a point that they both already understood. They had nowhere to go. Trying to keep the situation polite, Sam said, "That's really our business, isn't it?"

Arla nodded, "I suppose so. But why don't we cut through the malarkey?"

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.

"You two are broke. You have nowhere to go. Don't even try to lie to me; I'm a mother. I can see right through you." Arla tilted her head, looking from one to the other. "And I have news for you. Dr. Walker is a good doc, but he's no miracle worker. You may feel better right now, although just from looking at you I'd say you both still feel like crap. You need food, rest and medicine. I don't suppose you have any of that worked into your plans, do you?"

Sam tried to think of a good answer, but his brain was just too tired. Dean didn't seem to be much better off because he remained silent. Arla continued, voice gentle as she stepped closer, "Look boys, let's be honest here. You need some help. You have to realize that my husband and I aren't idiots. We are very aware that something incredibly strange happened in that motel room with that poor girl, Mallory. Maybe we can't help you with that, but we want to help you with whatever we can."

Dean coughed, then said, "Thanks. But it's probably best you don't."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Arla smiled again. "Regardless, I'm telling you that you aren't leaving here without convincing me that you have a compelling plan for how you are going to eat nutritional food, pay for the antibiotics you need, and get enough rest to fully recover."

Feeling like he was being totally useless, Sam lowered his eyes and hoped Dean was more prepared to spin a convincing story than he was at the moment. At the moment, he really just wanted to find his own bed and lay down. Sitting up was for the birds. _Or whatever_. He was two seconds away from admitting defeat and just putting his head back down on the gurney when Dean finally answered her.

"We don't have a plan." He said softly, head resting back against the pillows.

Sam felt the stirrings of panic. Dean wasn't one to in any way give up. And he wasn't one to admit to weakness or let anyone help him. Which meant he was feeling much worse than he was letting on. Sam stared at him, his breathing speeding up as he found himself worrying all over again about what they were going to do.

Arla nodded and said, "Well, I do have a plan. Would you like to hear it?"

Dean stared at her for a long moment, then he glanced at Sam. He shrugged a shoulder, asking what Sam thought. _I don't really care at this point, so long as her plan involves a bed_, Sam decided, shrugging back. Dean nodded and turned back to Arla.

He said, "We're listening."

* * *

><p><em>1:45 AM Christmas Day<em>

"Why are you doing this?" Raquel asked, voice weak and hoarse from screaming. She pressed her back against the tree, trying to take some of the pressure off her numb arms. She sobbed, "Why do you hate me so much?"

The creature's bloodless lips spread in another grotesque smile and it raised the blade again. She screamed as it ran through her side. The monster pulled it out and leaned closer to her, whispering, "You deserve this. You had everything. Everything!"

Raquel shook her head, "I don't understand! What did I do?"

"You broke the natural way." It sneered, shaking its skeletal head in derision. "So pathetic. Gethen will be pleased that I am teaching you. He will be far less pleased to hear that his favorite has been eliminated."

"Mallory?" Raquel's eyes widened and she fought against the bonds with renewed fury. She screamed, "_You_ killed her!"

"She was already dead. Or did you forget?"

"You...you burned her bones!" Raquel continued, anger giving her strength. "Why? What did we do that was so bad? Tried to help some people. Why is that…"

"You are meant to serve Gethen. He is your master. And helping people is not what he requires of you!" The creature threw the knife down into the dirt and fisted both hands.

Raquel prepared herself for yet another blow, but none came. She fought to catch her breath as she stared at the monster before her. Finding her voice again, Raquel said, "What he _requires _of me? There was no orientation. I didn't have a chance to ask questions. I didn't get a handbook. How am I supposed to know what I'm supposed to do?"

Not that she cared. The only thing she cared about was getting away from Gethen, from this monster, from everything that had happened in the past 365 days. She shouted, "He killed my husband! He _ate_ him in front of me! Why would I ever do what he requires of me?"

The long, icy fingers were back around her neck and, had she not been so furious, she would have been utterly terrified. The creature said, "You were a poor choice on Gethen's part. Even he'd agree with me. But don't worry. When he arrives, he's going to take care of everything."

"What do you mean?" Raquel asked, suddenly feeling as small as an ant under the empty gaze of the monster. Panic started bubbling up again. "What does that mean?"

"He's going to give you that lesson you wanted so badly to have." The creature smiled and ran its hand down her cheek tenderly. "You shall have your orientation. And I can guarantee it is going to change everything…"

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed! Thank you all for reading! I am completely staggered by the number of reviews this story has gotten! You have all blown me away with your readership and kind words. I hope that the story continues to entertain and that you continue to enjoy it! <strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**_Well folks...this fudging chapter nearly killed me. Argh. So much for having it posted for y'all last Thursday like I had hoped. I really don't have a good excuse other than to let Chuck Shurley speak for me when he says "Writing is hard." Yes, Chuck, it really is. I had a nearly complete draft, decided I hated almost all of it and started again. I have all the scenes in my head, but dang if it isn't hard to get them in print sometimes! :) _**

**_So begging your forgiveness for the delay... here is chapter 10~~~~~_**

* * *

><p><em>3:40 AM Christmas Day<br>Pender home_

Arla hadn't expected them to be easy to convince. So while they'd listened to her offer them a house with warm beds, no mold on the walls, and home cooking, she'd already begun planning her secondary assault; she figured a long list of potential complications of untreated pneumonia like bacteremia and lung abscesses would have done the trick. But she hadn't even needed to pull out the big guns. Because Dean had listened silently until she'd finished, then glanced at Sam. They'd exchanged some sort of silent communication that ended with Sam putting his head back down on his arms with a heavy sigh and Dean giving her a weary nod. She'd felt almost as surprised by his easy capitulation as she had when the girl in the motel had gone up in smoke.

It had been almost an hour before they'd finally been able to leave the hospital. She'd even managed to get both of the boys to drink some water and eat a couple crackers while they waited for the doctor's orders. Arla still wasn't sure who had been antsier at the long delay; Tommy or Dean. Because she'd forbidden Tommy from asking any of the questions he was dying to ask and, once he'd accepted her offer, Dean had been chomping at the bit to leave. Sam had been the only one not making a nuisance of himself.

Pulling into the garage after the long drive from the hospital, Arla hoped Tommy hadn't been interrogating them while he drove. She turned off the engine and got out of the SUV just as Tommy parked the big Chevy into the driveway. Quickly unlocking the side door and flipping on the hall lights inside the house, Arla turned around and headed back toward the Impala.

Tommy had the back door open and was helping Sam get to his feet. Arla watched as the kid reached out a fumbling hand for the roof of the car to hold himself steady, eyes squeezed closed. Catching her eye, Tommy motioned to the other door as he pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder. Arla nodded, watching as they began their slow trek toward the house. She reached the other door just as Dean was trying to push it open. Tugging it the rest of the way, Arla was unpleasantly surprised when he held out the basin she'd sent along with them. She'd hoped it wouldn't be necessary, but apparently someone had put it to good use along the way.

Grabbing it carefully, she set it on the trunk of the car, then turned back as Dean pushed himself to his feet. Taking in his pale face and grimace as he straightened, she pointed at the basin and asked, "You?"

"Nope." Dean shook his head, shrugging, "He was fine till your driveway."

"Ah." Arla sighed.

She hadn't even thought about that. The driveway was curved, rutted and uneven, more of a dirt path than anything else. Certainly not good for a queasy stomach. Dean slammed the door and turned away from her, looking toward the house. Arla stepped closer and reached out to provide some support, only to be stopped by Dean's raised hand. He shot her a warning glance and she paused.

"I'm fine." He said, even as he stumbled and put a hand down against the hood of the car. Casting her a sheepish glance, he added, "Mostly."

"Mmhmm." Arla rolled her eyes. "Good thing I'm married and know how to handle stubborn men." She ignored the annoyance on his face and grabbed his arm. She said, "Your bruised ego will survive. No sexy ladies around for you to impress, hot stuff. I'm taken. So you can just stop trying to amaze me with how tough you are because you're not fooling anyone."

Dean's eyes widened and Arla almost laughed at his shocked expression. She guided him toward the door, feeling him finally relax a little under her grasp. He was working hard to suck in oxygen given the exertion of walking and didn't seem to be able to catch enough of a breath to sass her like she knew he wanted to. He just lowered his head and kept his free hand against the wall as they walked. They had only made it just inside the hall when he paused forward motion to hunch over coughing.

Cringing at the harsh coughs, Arla eased his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around his back. As soon as she had done so, he leaned heavily against her and she knew exactly how beat he was. Thankful he was a little bit shorter than his giant of a brother, Arla held onto him until he'd caught his breath and was able to start moving forward again. It was slow going and she couldn't wait to get him off his feet and give him another neb treatment.

Tommy came around the corner a moment later. He asked, "You ok?"

Arla nodded and said, "We'll make it. Sam?"

"In bed." Tommy smiled, meeting Dean's concerned eyes. He said, "He was asleep before his head hit the pillow."

Dean blew out a relieved breath, then let his head drop again. Arla said, "Good. One down, one to go. Can you go grab the medications and the neb machine?"

"On it." Tommy nodded, hurrying past them.

"Almost there," Arla encouraged, listening to the wheezing breaths Dean was taking. "Just around that corner. Nice comfy bed. Sounding pretty good right about now, I bet."

Dean nodded but didn't even try to speak. Squeezing his arm, Arla guided him toward the guestroom. It was hard to believe it had been almost ten years since the girls had lived at home. Time had a way of flying by too quickly. She pointed Dean to the correct door and wondered if his mother missed him as much as she missed the twins. Entering their old room, Arla was grateful that Tommy had finally made her repaint and redecorate it to be a lot less girly. Somehow she didn't think the brothers would have appreciated the pink walls and adorable teddy bear curtains the girls had sewn as fourth-graders.

She saw Sam curled up on his side, expression still tense and pained even in sleep, and guided Dean toward the nearer bed. Finally reaching it, he sat down heavily, sucking in shallow breaths while blinking slowly and staring at his brother. Arla made a pile of pillows at the head of the bed as Dean yanked his boots off. It didn't take any coaxing to get him under the covers, resting against the pillows.

Tommy walked into the room and quickly set the nebulizer machine and a plastic bag on the bedside table. He said, "I'm going to go grab some water and a box of tissues. Medicine's there. Anything else?"

"Thanks." Arla acknowledged, setting up the breathing treatment as Dean coughed into his sleeve. "Probably better bring the basin back in here, hon. Just in case."

"Yes, Doctor Pender." Tommy said, winking at Dean. "She always gives me the dirty work."

Arla lowered the mask over Dean's face, then smacked Tommy on the rear as he turned to leave. She rolled her eyes and said, "I told him not to retire. He could have been out chasing criminals instead of helping me."

Dean gave her a weak smile, but immediately turned back to check on his brother. Arla followed his gaze, then said, "Our girls are close like you two are. Sara and Amy. They're a bit older than you, both married and busy raising my grandbabies. Off on opposite sides of the country. But still as close as ever."

Looking back, she wasn't surprised to see Dean's eyes were closed. She smiled and tucked the blanket around him. While she waited for the neb treatment to finish, Arla did a quick check of his pulse and respiratory rate. Both were elevated; not exactly a surprise. At least he didn't feel fevered. She checked on Sam and found that his vital signs were within the normal range and his fever seemed to have broken as well.

She sat silently on the edge of Dean's bed until the treatment was over. He didn't even stir as she gently removed the mask and set it aside. Turning off the light, she tiptoed out of the room. Tommy met her in the hallway with his arms laden. She took the basin from him as he set the boy's backpacks and duffle bags inside the room. Rinsing out the basin in the adjoining bathroom, Arla left the bathroom light on and set the basin on the floor between the beds.

"Anything else?" Tommy asked from the doorway.

Arla put her hands on her hips, taking a last glance around the room, trying to make sure she had all the bases covered. She looked back at Tommy and whispered, "Get the chicken out of the freezer."

"What?"

"They're going to need something to eat later. The chicken needs to thaw so I can make soup." She reached for one of the packs on the floor and said, "I'm going to start their laundry and then we're getting some sleep while we can."

Tommy yawned and said, "Good. Because I know we used to pull some wild all-nighters, my dear, but I'm an old man now."

Giving him a quick kiss, Arla said, "Young at heart, Tommy. Always young at heart."

"Doesn't help me keep my eyes open after being awake for, what? Twenty hours now?"

"Just get the chicken then go to bed." Arla pushed him gently down the hall. She yawned and whispered, "I'm right behind you."

* * *

><p><em>3:40 AM Christmas Day<br>__Somewhere near the motel_

She had no idea how long the creature had been torturing her, but it seemed like an eternity. Raquel had given up trying to ask questions, given up pleading for him to stop. It took far less effort to simply let him do whatever he wanted. Finally, though, the thing paused. It shook its head and stepped back.

Licking its lips, the thing said, "Time for a snack. Don't go anywhere."

Raquel watched in disbelief as it turned and took off running into the darkness. Deciding not to waste a single second, she immediately got to work. Looking up wasn't easy given the way her hands were bound, especially as stretched out as she was, but twisting painfully, she managed to visualize where the iron chain was bound to the tree. And she was shocked to realize that the chain wasn't attached to an iron hook but simply to the protruding stump of a broken off branch. The stump was thick so she wasn't going to be able to yank it off the tree. But at least it wasn't an iron hook. If she worked hard enough, there was a chance that she would be able to get the chain up and over the stump.

Huffing out a frustrated breath after tugging at the chain for a few minutes, Raquel lowered her head and took a moment to gather her thoughts. Even if she were able to get the chain down from the tree, what was she going to do after that? There was nowhere to run. For 365 days she'd roamed the motel property, the woodsy area around it, down to the highway and back again. Never had she been able to take one step further. So she couldn't exactly flag down another traveler and ask for a ride. She wouldn't get very far.

So Raquel stopped fighting. She stared down at the dirt and watched as her silent tear drops splattered into the dirt. It made her think of the rain. The rain of that day. Christmas Day.

365 days ago…

_ Christmas Day, 2004_

_An abandoned motel, secluded and off the main highway, wasn't the last place in the world that Raquel Alonzo would have wished to find herself on Christmas Day, but it was certainly close. Sitting in the passenger seat of the shabby Geo Metro, Raquel wrapped her arms around herself; each drop of rain doing its part to sing along with the sad serenade of her life. Trembling less from the cold and more from the never-ending ache in the deepest part of her heart, she stared straight ahead and waited._

_The car was so small that she could feel the tension vibrating off of Peter from where he sat in the driver's seat. It was almost as if the little Geo's engine were still running; the jumping of Peter's right leg had the entire car shivering. The rain pattered, she trembled and Peter thrummed with worry, or anger; she was never sure which anymore._

_And they sat._

_Raquel didn't move, but let her eyes take in the sight of the run-down motel. It might have been a cute place once, but now it just looked grey and depressing. So maybe this is the perfect place for us after all. She blinked back the wetness in her eyes and brought her gaze back within the car. Not that inside the car was less depressing. Because inside the car was her and her husband and three years of pain, betrayal, heartache and a finger that used to have a diamond on it. _

_With her thumb, she scratched at the underside of her finger, feeling the phantom sensation of her wedding ring. It was a silly thing to regret given the long list of things she regretted, but she did regret throwing it across the yard the day Peter had come home and told her he'd lost his job. Again._

_It had been raining that day, too, Raquel shook her head at the thought. Maybe the rain had started the day he'd asked her to marry him. Sometimes it seemed like it had been raining for all three years of their troubled marriage. _

_She took a deep breath and said, "I'm going inside."_

_Peter didn't answer, didn't move. So she just grabbed her backpack and got out of the car. The door to the nearest motel room was wide open and she walked toward it, feeling the music of the rain dull as it hit her hair and shoulders. Her tears joined in with the song as she crossed the threshold of the motel room. Standing there, just inside the door, Raquel didn't even see the room; didn't smell the mold, didn't see the stains on the carpet, didn't see the graffiti on the walls._

_All she saw was a black space with nothing but the pain and emptiness of her life painted across it. Raquel heard the car door slam and a moment later felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off and Peter took another step closer. His left hand ran up and down her left arm as he pressed up behind her; his right arm wrapping around her waist. He hadn't embraced her like this in months. Her backpack fell from her hand as she relaxed against him, turning her face toward his, tears soaking his collar._

_Peter turned her around and drew her into his arms. Gently, he tilted her face up and she was surprised to see a gentle smile on his haggard face. She couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled. _

_He said softly, "I love you, Raquel. You know that, right?"_

_She nodded slowly, tears rolling down her cheeks. He kissed her forehead, then pulled her closer. Head resting against his chest as he stroked her hair, Raquel whispered, "How did this happen?"_

_"__Hey, hey," Peter shook his head, his breath warm against the top of her head, "we're done with that question. Remember? We know how it happened." His voice was bitter, but gentle. "We can type it up on a freaking spreadsheet and make a powerpoint of how it happened." _

_Peter's voice broke and, had he not been holding her up, Raquel would have gone to her knees. She felt his chest heaving as his arms tightened around her. He whispered, "None of that matters now, Raquel. New start. We promised. We decided. Together. We're going to do this together. Please, baby… Please. I can't do this without you."_

_Raquel couldn't speak, couldn't answer him. He guided her to the edge of the bed and she sat down heavily, pressing her hands to her eyes. Peter knelt on the carpet in front of her and tugged her hands away. She forced herself to meet his eyes and saw the same agony reflected on his tear streaked face. He was right, of course, they'd talked it to death and beyond. Every angle, every what could have been and what if, every paralyzing memory of what had happened. What _she_ had done. All that talking. All that yelling. All the blame, the anger, the immeasurable sorrow had done nothing except rip them apart._

_She reached for his hand and squeezed it. A flicker of hope lit his eyes. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled something out. It was huge and blurry and beautiful through her tears and Raquel couldn't even begin to comprehend what she was seeing. Pressing her free hand against her mouth, she shook her head. Peter smiled through his own tears, holding the ring up._

_"__It took me three days to find this." He said, brushing her hair over her ears. Glancing at the ring, then back at Raquel, Peter added, "If I give this back, will you promise not to throw it across the desert?"_

_Raquel burst out laughing despite the tears. Peter grinned and she let him slide it back where it belonged. He kissed her hand then said, "Raquel, I can't do this without you. We've tried that. "_

_ "__I know." They'd tried just about everything in fact._

_ "__New start." Peter said firmly. "That's what we decided. And that's all that matters. A new start. Right here, this moment, on this rainy Christmas day. I don't care what happens next. You know that? I don't care what happened last week, last year. And I don't care what happens next. Because I love you, Raquel. Always have, always will. Nothing could ever change that."_

_Raquel stared at him. He'd said it all before. Several times actually, but somehow she'd never believed it until right at that moment. Peter had searched for three days to find her ring. He was taking her to a new start, far from the pain and memories of their past. She nodded slowly, squeezing his arm._

_He smiled and cupped her cheek with his hand. Peter said, "Whatever happens next, whatever we face, we'll get through; _you'll_ get through. You just have to forgive yourself. Because I already have."_

That had been the last thing Peter had ever said to her. As soon as he'd said those words, promising her a future and forgiveness for what she'd done, a monster had come up behind him and dragged Peter into the parking lot. Fighting with everything she had, Raquel had tried to save Peter, but the monster she would later learn was named Gethen had thrown her across the parking lot. Her head had cracked against the pavement and the last thing she'd seen as the blackness had swallowed her had been Gethen eating Peter.

Raquel shook her head, pushing those dark memories away. Her thoughts returned to her predicament and the creature. The creature had said _time for a snack_ and suddenly she knew without a doubt that it hadn't meant a PB&J. That thing, that monster, was out there getting ready to _eat_ some poor person. Some innocent, unsuspecting person just like Peter. And Raquel couldn't let someone else die that way. So she jumped, as well as she could given her uncomfortable position, and tried to get that chain off of the stump. It took ten attempts before she got it free.

Looking in the direction the monster had disappeared, Raquel ran into the darkness.

* * *

><p><em>5 AM, Christmas Day<br>__Pender home_

It wasn't always a nightmare that woke him up; sometimes the good dreams were just as bad. Because there was always that inkling of something not right nagging at him until he woke up with his arms as empty as his heart. This time, it wasn't just the pain of Jessica's death that overwhelmed him. Sam pressed his hands to his head and wondered if it were actually possible for someone's head to explode. Dean would say it was just an urban legend, but Dean's brain wasn't currently trying to press out through his ears, so how would he know anyway? Sam had to force himself to take a shallow breath now and then because the act of breathing itself only increased the pain tenfold.

As bad as that was, far more alarming was the realization that he had no idea what had happened or where he was. He was in a bed, that much he could figure out despite the thundering in his skull. Other than that, he had no clue. Sam's first instinct was to call out for his brother, but beyond the awful headache, he was so nauseated that opening his mouth seemed a very bad idea. So he just pressed his face against the pillow and prayed for the end to come soon.

Although his eyes were squeezed shut, he could tell a light had been turned on nearby and he hoped it was the light at the end of the tunnel because anything else was going to kill him. Sam heard movement and tensed. He really needed to get his eyes open because whatever it was could be a threat. He hoped it was just Dean. Footsteps approached and someone, _not Dean_, spoke his name extremely softly and he managed to get his eyes open. The room was dark, dimly lit from somewhere in the distance. A shape, _not Dean_, moved into his line of sight and he blinked, trying to figure out of there were really two women standing in front of him.

"Sam?" The voice repeated, still soft as falling snow. The women, _woman_, knelt in front of him. "What's wrong? Are you feeling sick again?"

_Yeah, that too, _he moaned, pressing his eyes closed again. He felt a hand on his wrist and jerked away. Looking back at the woman, he asked, "Who are you?"

Whoever she was, she looked even more concerned now. She said, "I'm Arla Pender." The way she said it made Sam suspect she thought he should know who she was. But he had no clue. Her worried voice went on, "Can you remember where you are?"

Frowning, Sam wondered why that was such a complicated question. It shouldn't have been hard. Thinking for a few seconds, he remembered a plane. A demon. _So Pennsylvania?_ No, that didn't sound right. They'd gone south after that case. Poltergeists. He finally whispered, "Arizona."

The woman seemed relieved. She nodded and said, "That's right. Do you remember the hospital?"

_Hospital? Um…no_. Sam wished she'd go away.

"Sam?"

"No."

"Do you remember the motel?"

Why couldn't she leave him alone? It hurt too much to think. He closed his eyes again and asked, "Where's Dean?"

"He's sleeping right over there." Sam forced himself to look and confirm that his brother was where she said he was, then looked back at the doctor when she asked, "Sam, is your head hurting?"

"Yes." _Please will you just shoot me or something…_

The woman gently touched his shoulder and said, "I don't think you're up to taking any Tylenol right now, but I'm going to give you another dose of the medication they gave you in the ER for the nausea. Once we get the nausea under control, we can do something about the headache."

Sam heard her words but none of them were making any sense, so he just closed his eyes and listened as she moved around. After a few seconds, she was back at his side and saying something about putting the tablet of medication under his tongue. He thought that was a very bad idea but she insisted and he just hoped she was ready for him to throw up all over her. But he didn't throw up and very gradually, he felt some of the nausea disappear.

Although the pain wasn't diminishing in any way, some of the fog seemed to be lifting and he started trying to piece together disjointed memories. He still had nothing but a blank spot when it came to being at a hospital, or how he'd gotten…wherever he was now. But at least he finally remembered the doctor and her husband finding them at the motel.

For a few moments, he zoned out, then he heard the doctor speaking softly and tried to pay attention, "…try to relax. It'll be a bit cold, but I think this will help."

A cool cloth was pressed to the back of his neck and he almost cried in relief. It didn't eliminate the misery, but it was a step in the right direction. Exhausted, he slowly felt his tense muscles begin to relax as a gentle hand massaged his shoulders. It didn't seem possible, but eventually some of the pain began to ebb and he could feel the pull of sleep.

Sam fell asleep with Jessica's name on his lips.

* * *

><p><em>9:30 AM, Christmas Day<br>__Pender home_

A sudden coughing spell woke Dean from a deep, comfortable slumber. When he finally stopped coughing, he lay back against the pillows feeling as if there were a weight over him. Comfortable and warm, he almost let the inviting warmth pull him back under, but something was nagging at the back of his mind and it wouldn't let him rest. It took several half-hearted attempts to get his eyes open. Most of him just wanted to stay asleep because when he'd been asleep, he hadn't felt the stabbing pain in his chest every time he took a breath, or the raw burning in his throat.

But there was a small part of him that needed to take stock of his situation and was desperately craving a drink of water. So he forced his sticky eyes open. Staring at the white ceiling of the unfamiliar room, Dean eventually remembered where he was and what had happened. The curtains were drawn, but the room was still dimly lit by the daylight outside_. Daylight?_ He squeezed his eyes closed again for a moment, rubbing his chest. It had been pitch dark when they'd arrived at the Pender's house. How long had he been asleep?

Forcing his eyes open again, he looked to his right. Sam was sleeping the sleep of the dead and looked more relaxed and at peace than Dean could remember seeing him…well ever since Jessica's death. On his back, mouth half opened and breathing deeply, he looked like he could sleep for a year. Given how little sleep he'd been getting recently, Dean figured he was due for a long winter's nap.

Rubbing his eyes with fumbling fingers, Dean lifted his hand and had to blink a few times to bring the face of his watch into focus. 9:30 AM? They'd slept almost six hours? It didn't even seem possible. Granted, six hours wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, but after the misery of the past twenty-four hours or so, six hours felt like an eternity.

Taking a careful breath, Dean grimaced at the pressure in his chest and considered trying to go back to sleep, but then he remembered the girl at the motel. She'd been terrified and trying to warn them. Whatever had burned her bones had not done so out of the goodness of their heart. Something was out there and there wasn't anyone else who could deal with it. With a sigh, Dean summoned his strength and forced himself to sit up a little higher against the pillows. He was lightheaded and it felt like his entire body weighed a thousand pounds. Gathering his strength and catching his breath, Dean pushed aside the warm covers and slid his legs over the edge of the bed.

It took a few minutes of sitting there, hands gripping the edge of the bed, head lowered, before he could catch his breath again after another coughing spell. He fumbled for the box of tissues on the nightstand. Spitting a mouthful of nasty rust colored sputum into the tissue, Dean groaned again and tossed it into the trashcan. He hadn't felt sick to his stomach until right then. Swallowing hard, he forced his queasy stomach back into submission. _So much for that drink of water…_

Once he was breathing a little easier, and some of the lightheadedness had worn off, Dean pushed himself to his feet; one hand against the wall for balance as he took a slow step forward. He leaned down and brushed his fingers across Sam's forehead, relieved to not feel the heat of fever anymore. Sam didn't stir under his touch and Dean gently pulled the quilt up higher over his shoulders.

Straightening up, Dean glanced around the room. On the wall he saw some pictures of little girls in matching party dresses and vaguely remembered Arla saying something about having daughters. The door was open to the hallway and he noticed their gear stacked next to the door. On top of a little desk just inside the door, he was surprised to see a couple of neat piles of folded clothes. Raising an eyebrow, he carefully made his way across the room and grabbed his clothes. His _clean_ clothes.

"Arla Pender, you are a saint." He muttered, heading for the bathroom. Shower first and then a plan. Because it was past time he figured out what was lurking in the woods behind that motel. Shaking his head, Dean snorted, "We would pick the haunted motel. Of course we would…"

* * *

><p><strong>Hope this was an ok chapter after a long wait and that you can all forgive me for taking so long! :) Cheers!<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi Everyone! Just want to say a huge thanks to all of you. For all the awesome reviews, for everyone who is following the story and who has added this to their favorites! It just blows me away every time I get an alert that I've got a new review or a new follow. You guys are the best! Special thanks to my guest reviewers, C1, Taraneh, L.H. and those of you leaving a note just under Guest. :) Really appreciate all your reviews. :)**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

><p><em>10:00 AM Christmas Day<br>__Pender home_

Tommy poured himself another cup of coffee and stared at the now empty pot. Deciding he probably should go ahead and make another pot, he tilted his head to listen. Water was running somewhere. Guest bathroom. _Hmm_, he set the pot on the counter, then took his cup of coffee for a walk. Everything had been relatively quiet in the house since around six-thirty when Arla had finally come to bed. He'd checked in on their company about an hour ago and found them both sound asleep. Hoping the water running wasn't a sign that one of them was feeling ill again, he turned down the hall and headed for the girls' old room.

Peeking in, he found Sam still sound asleep and Dean's bed empty. Hearing the shower running, he took a sip of coffee, then headed back to the dining room. Hopefully that was a good sign. Settling down at the table, he slid his glasses back on, set his coffee aside and returned to the article he'd been reading on his laptop. Finishing it, he clicked on another link and found even more detail on the subject of his research.

By the time he'd finished reading four more articles, Tommy heard slow, halting footsteps making their way down the hall. He looked up and saw the older brother peering uncertainly around the corner into the living room. The kid might have caught some sleep, but his eyes were still shaded and his face too pale. At least his breathing seemed a little easier. Tommy slid his chair back and Dean instantly looked his way.

"Hey there." Tommy smiled, rising from his chair, motioning for Dean to join him.

"Hey." Dean's voice was hoarse and quiet.

The kid coughed then swallowed hard, right arm pressed against his side as he slowly walked forward. Every few steps, he paused to catch his breath. It also looked like he was favoring his right leg, Tommy thought as he watched. Wondering what was wrong with Dean's leg, he pulled out a chair and said, "Have a seat."

Dean nodded and sank into the chair, arm still pressed against his chest as he coughed again. Tommy asked, "How are you feeling, son?"

"Super."

Tommy smiled at the blatant lie. He said, "I remember back in '98. Took a bullet on the job. I felt super then too." He folded his arms over his chest and said, "I'm not the doctor in this family, so if you want to stick to your story, I'm not gonna argue."

Tommy saw a spark of humor in the young man's eyes. He added, "Need to warn you, though. You're not going to fool my wife."

Dean settled back in the chair and resting his other arm on the table. He smiled a little and said, "I take it you didn't fool her either. Back in '98?"

"Not even a bit." Tommy grinned, "Probably would have been easier if she hadn't been the doc on duty at the ER that day. You lose a bit of credibility when you scream like a banshee as your wife extracts the bullet." He watched the kid rub his head, then glance around the room with a questioning expression. Assuming he was wondering where Arla was, Tommy said, "Arla's sleeping now. She was up for quite awhile with your brother."

Dean sat up a bit straighter, fully at attention. He asked, "Why? It looked like he was sleeping ok."

"Off and on." Tommy said, regretting alarming him.

"He have a nightmare?" Dean asked, forehead wrinkling in concern, "I would have heard…"

"No, he just wasn't resting very well. He woke up with a splitting headache. Took awhile, but she got him to take some Tylenol after his stomach settled and he finally got some sleep."

Dean sighed and nodded, "Yeah, he's been complaining of the headache all along. He was too sick to even try anything before though."

Tommy passed him a box of tissues when he started coughing again. It was a loose, junky sound and Dean nodded his thanks; yanking a tissue out of the box. Tommy waited till he caught his breath, then picked up a notebook, "Arla jotted down a few doctor's orders before she went to bed. One of which is to get you hydrated and have you take your antibiotic if your stomach is settled. Arla always swears by a nice cup of tea for a sore throat. And I'm betting your throat's gotta be sore."

"Nah," Dean smirked, even though he had to swallow hard before continuing, "feels super. Could use some water, though."

"Good choice. Water it is." Tommy studied him and asked, "Think you feel up to something to eat with it? It'd be good if you could try."

It took him a moment to consider, then Dean shrugged, "Sure."

"Good. My specialty is toast." Tommy figured it was the best place to start given the kid had barely forced down a cracker earlier.

Dean nodded, a little tension leaving his shoulders at the suggestion. He said, "Yeah, the special sounds good."

Tommy grabbed a bottle of water. Handing it to Dean, he said, "It'll just take a minute."

He slid a slice of bread into the toaster, then leaned against the counter and analyzed Dean. The kid was surveying the room with an exhausted, but practiced gaze. It was the same gaze he himself had used when scoping out the motel room they'd found the brothers in. And he'd waited a long time. He'd been patient. The kid was breathing fine and not puking; time for a few questions. He poured himself another cup of coffee and stepped back toward the table.

Placing the cup down, he asked, "So, Dean, what brought you to Arizona?"

Tommy knew the kid realized it was time for the interrogation. Dean tapped a finger on the table. It wasn't a nervous tap, though. It was a tap that indicated he was considering his words very carefully. Tommy'd seen that same motion many times on suspects in the interrogation room.

After a few seconds, Dean said, "Work."

"Ah." Tommy waited, but wasn't surprised that he wasn't getting any more details.

The toast popped up and he grabbed a plate. Working silently, Tommy buttered the slice and tried to determine how to best word his questions in order to get Dean to talk. Putting the plate down, he saw Dean was still staring at him with slightly narrowed eyes. Tommy decided laying it all on the table would be his best bet. Because from the very little he knew about Dean Winchester, it was obvious he wasn't the type who liked playing games. Tommy pulled out the chair across from Dean, and let him take a couple bites of the toast.

"I'm betting you know what I'm about to ask you." Tommy said after finishing his cup of coffee. "You've been sizing me up ever since you first saw me. I'm a cop. So it shouldn't be a surprise that I do have some questions I'd like answered. That being said, I think you'll find I'm a fairly reasonable guy. I'd really like it if you would tell me what happened back at the motel."

Dean took a sip of water and nodded. He said, "You probably aren't going to…"

"I'll believe it." Tommy interrupted. "I saw that girl go up in flames. That wasn't natural. It wasn't faked. Wasn't my imagination or a hallucination. So I guarantee that whatever you have to say isn't going to surprise me."

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Dean said with a wry smile, "because the next thing out of my mouth is gonna rhyme with toast."

Tommy took a deep breath and asked, "I'm guessing you're not gonna say pot roast."

"Nope," Dean grinned, and held the water bottle up in a mock salute, "but that rhymes too."

* * *

><p><em>1000 AM Christmas Day<br>n__ear the highway by the motel_

Raquel held her breath as she approached the creature. She had spent the night roaming the motel grounds and the woods surrounding it to find the beast. Crouching behind a scraggly bush, she actually wished the stabbing pricklers were scraping her cheek instead of just passing through it. What she wouldn't give to _feel _again. Ignoring the now familiar ache, she concentrated on her target. After it had left her for its snack, she had run blindly through the woods in the hopes of finding it before it could find a victim. For a few hours she'd roamed the ever familiar, never changing landscape of her entrapment. Hope had nearly fled her as daylight came and the shadows fled. Surely the monster was far gone and tearing some poor victim to shreds.

Then she'd circled back to the highway and found, to her relief, that the monster seemed to be finding it as difficult to find a meal as it had been for her to flag down a passerby to help. Fleetingly, her thoughts turned to the couple who had stopped to help her. Raquel felt tears blur her eyes. The motel had been deserted when she'd searched it earlier. Which meant the compassionate travelers had taken Sam and Dean away from this accursed place. That was the only good or beautiful thing about this Christmas Day. For a moment, the thought that she'd managed to help someone brought a brief smile to her face. Then she saw the creature move and she forced her attention to return to the present.

Raquel narrowed her eyes as the creature stalked back and forth along the shoulder of the highway. The thing looked angry. _Well, as angry as a monster with a dead face could look_, she decided, wrinkling her nose. Hating the thought of going near the creature, Raquel sucked in a breath that left her stomach quivering. Despite the uncomfortable wiggling of her insides, she knew she didn't have a choice.

Because there was nothing out here except her. No one to call. No one to help.

Just her.

The cuffs still around her wrists, Raquel gripped the heavy iron chain between the cuffs and ran forward on silent feet that left the twigs, the leaves, and the sand undisturbed. For 365 days, she'd hidden, cried, wandered. Today, right now, she ran. Because it was time to do more than waste her eternity. She skirted a tree and watched the creature pacing along the highway. It didn't notice her. Until it was too late.

She lifted the heavy chain up and threw it over the monster's neck. Not knowing what to expect, Raquel tightened chain around the bony, bloodless neck and tried not to notice the milky cold sensation as her fingers brushed against the monster's skin. It howled the scream of nightmares and threw its head back, smashing her in the face. Stunned, Raquel tightened the chain and dragged the thing backwards, away from the road.

Wailing and scratching pointed black nails into her flesh, it bucked against her and tried to throw her off balance. Raquel used the creature's momentum to move them deeper into the safety of the woods. As much as she detested the iron cuffs and chain prohibiting her complete freedom, she had to admit that it was coming in handy.

The creature dug its nails into her arms again and threw its weight to the side. Raquel bit back a scream at the pain in her arms, but allowed the creature to fall over. She went down heavily with it; landing with her right knee square in the middle of its back. It jerked and twitched, screaming obscenities as she allowed her entire weight to center on her knee. Stunned, Raquel found herself wondering how exactly she was able to have any kind of a physical impact on the creature. Shaking her head, she grinned. Even if she almost hated herself for smiling, she found it impossible not to be pleased with herself for what she'd accomplished.

Yanking on the chain, she leaned down and whispered, "My turn, you creepy corpse thing. I've got a few questions for you."

* * *

><p><em>Pender home<em>

"So someone burned that girl, that _ghost's_, bones to destroy her?" Tommy asked, running a hand through his hair. Arla would have rolled her eyes and combed it all back down, but he was too distracted. Hair standing on end, he went on, "Why? I mean, why kill someone who's already dead?"

"You'd be surprised." Dean answered, taking another drink of water. He rubbed his eyes and said, "We usually take 'em out because they're causing problems. Most of the time ghosts tend to...well, be angry."

"They're angry they're dead?"

"Sometimes. Or because they were murdered, or because they had a bad life or…"

Dean broke off coughing and Tommy held up a hand and said, "Got it. Before or after, bad deal. And this...burning bones, that takes care of them?"

"Usually. Sometimes their spirit is actually attached to a place or an object." Dean shrugged, "It's not always as easy as just finding their remains and salting and burning them."

Tommy shook his head. He'd known something very not right was going on when the girl had gone up in flames, but this..._this_ was far beyond his wildest imagination. Tommy leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, letting out a low whistle. Dean was staring at him as if expecting him to snap at any moment. He was a bit overwhelmed to be sure, but not about to fall apart.

Tommy asked, "And this is what you do? That's your _job_? Finding ghosts?"

"Not just ghosts." Dean said, sliding the now empty plate forward.

"Yeah, your brother said you dealt with monsters." Tommy frowned, thinking back to the motel and the aftermath of the ghost's spectacular flame-out. "Monsters?"

Dean nodded, "Monsters, demons, and every other evil thing we come across."

Tommy leaned forward, elbows against the table, "How...how do you even get into a field of work like that?"

"Family thing." Dean said succinctly.

From the expression on his face, Tommy decided he would be unlikely to get much embellishment on that topic. So he said, "You two just drive around the country. Looking for monsters?"

"More or less."

"When we were at the hospital, I heard you talking about poltergeists." Tommy saw Dean stiffen and went on quickly, "I know. I was listening in and I'm sorry about that. But you have to realize the man sitting in front of you right now is a cop. And what I saw in that motel room seemed very suspicious."

Dean nodded and Tommy continued, "What was I supposed to think with all those weapons? And you two being at an abandoned motel? That doesn't exactly sing out that you were on the up and up."

"Good point. Thanks for not arresting us, by the way." Dean smiled slightly. "Gotta say, you're taking this better than most."

"I've been around the block a few times, son. Seen some crazy stuff." Tommy rolled his eyes. "Maybe not ghosts, but people can be crazy too."

"That's what I say." Dean nodded smugly.

"You guys were talking about poltergeists." Tommy returned to the topic, "Is that why you came to this area?"

"Yes."

"It was the Brody place, wasn't it? People've gone missing out there. Some deaths in the area. Lots of talk through the years of the property being haunted."

"Not any more."

"So you two took them out?" Tommy raised an eyebrow. "When?"

Dean coughed, then shrugged, "We've been here almost a week dealing with them. Finally finished the job around midnight Christmas Eve." He sighed, "And there's something else out there that we need to deal with."

"You don't know what's out there, do you?" Tommy asked, studying the kid who shook his head and shrugged again. "But you think something bad killed that ghost?"

"That girl was afraid of _something_." Dean said, "She wanted us to get away from the motel. We need to know what happened out there and deal with it before it kills someone else. Someone who's _not_ a ghost."

"How are you planning to figure out what it is?" Tommy asked, although he was confident he already knew the answer.

Dean said, "We need to do a little research and go back out there and…"

"Research you say?" Tommy interrupted and slid his laptop closer. He said, "I think I have some research you may find useful."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he asked, "What exactly have you been researching?"

Tommy opened the laptop and said, "Names mostly. The girl in the motel room said her name was Mallory Beech."

"You find her?"

"Cop, remember?" Tommy smiled, "Miss Mallory Beech, 18 years old, freshman at Arizona State University. Home for Christmas break. Disappeared while out on a hike."

"Let me guess," Dean sighed, rubbing his chest and glancing at the laptop, "she was found dead?"

"She was found in _pieces_." Tommy grimaced, "Some...uh, shreds, a few bones, and a whole lot of blood were found over a two mile radius, well north of town."

Dean wrinkled his nose, "Yech."

"It was brutal. They didn't even recover that much of her." Tommy rose and refilled his coffee cup. He pointed at the screen, "The reports list a few options for what they thought might have killed her but they're unconfirmed. Not enough left of her to make a definitive guess. Maybe bear, coyote, bobcat, mountain lion. Who knows."

"It wasn't an animal." Dean said with certainty, glancing at the pictures. "When did she die?"

Tommy clicked to another page and said, "Christmas week. 1982."

"Ok. So now we know who she was and when she died." Dean said, frowning, "What we don't know is what killed her, scared her so badly in the afterlife and burned her bones." He sat back and took another sip of water, then said, "Whatever killed her is still out there."

"And you're planning to go out there and find it."

"Yep."

"Uh huh." Tommy shook his head. "I'm prepared to give you a gold medal if you get past my wife in your condition. Speaking of which, why were you limping?"

Dean stared at him with irritation. After a few seconds, he relented and said, "Twisted my ankle fighting old man Brody. Look, I'm fine. Been much worse. None of that matters. Something ripped Mallory Beech to shreds and probably has killed a lot more...and _will_ kill again."

"I hear you. Don't get me wrong. But you can barely walk, barely breathe and you look like hell, son." Tommy said, trying to be gentle. "How about we do a little more research before you try to make a break for it? Because I actually have a few other things to show you."

The kid looked even more annoyed and stubborn, but muttered, "You've been busy."

"I'm as eager as you are to find out what's going on out there." Tommy said, "And I think I have a few answers. When she was trying to get us to leave, Mallory said something about not wanting to watch Gethen kill more people."

"You found out who Gethen is?"

"I think so." Tommy opened another tab and looked through his bookmarks till he found the page he'd been looking at earlier. He said, "Gethen, as you might have already guessed, is an obscure name. Not exactly making the top ten of bouncing baby names of the year if you know what I mean. It's Welsh."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "Welsh? That seems a bit odd for Arizona, doesn't it? Big immigrant population?"

Tommy laughed, "Not so far as I know. But the fact it's not common made it a little easier, actually."

Squinting at the screen, Dean read the headline, "_Gethen and Turpleman's Transcendental Travelling Show_. You have got to be kidding me." He glanced at Tommy, "A medicine show?"

"They were common during the 19th century up until the Second World War." Tommy said, "This one apparently toured through the southwest during the 1920's. They were your typical snake oil and miracle cure racket."

Dean skimmed the page, then glanced up at Tommy, "This is it?"

"So far. I couldn't find a lot. Just that paragraph. It's from a dissertation by a doctoral candidate some thirty years ago." Tommy said, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup, "It didn't go into a lot of detail other than to say the last time they rolled into town, people reported that it was the best show anyone had ever seen. Apparently the cures actually worked this time around."

"But?"

"Well, the show was the best it had ever been and the miracle cures worked, but everyone thought the two snake charmers seemed off. Like they were different somehow." Tommy shook his head, "There isn't much detail, but apparently when folks headed out to the field for the last night of the show they didn't get entertainment."

"I'm afraid to ask…"

"They found Turpleman," Tommy smiled grimly, "everywhere."

"Huh." Dean grimaced, "That sounds familiar."

"You think whatever killed Turpleman is still out there. Might have been what killed Mallory Beech?"

Dean nodded, "Anything said about Gethen? Because it seems like he's the most likely candidate for our monster."

"Apparently he disappeared." Tommy shrugged, "That's all I could find on him so far, anyway." He paused, noticing Dean was frowning and looking past the living room toward the hall. "Dean? What is it?"

Dean shoved his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. He spared a rapid glance at Tommy and said, "I heard Sam."

He immediately began walking toward the hall. Tommy stepped closer, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder and said, "Sit back down; I'll go check on him."

"I've got this." Dean said, never slowing his pace despite his limp and another coughing spell.

Tommy didn't fight him, but stayed close. He wasn't entirely sure the kid was going to be able to stay upright. They rounded the corner and he was surprised to see Sam standing there, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to his eyes. Tommy shook his head; how either of them were standing even mostly upright was beyond him. They both needed to be sitting down, not trying to go fight monsters, or whatever was out there.

"Sam?" Dean immediately moved toward him, reaching out a hand to grab his brother's shoulder. "What are you doing?"

Sam lowered his hand and blinked slowly, staring at Dean like he was trying to decide if he was really seeing him. After a few seconds, he squeezed his eyes closed and mumbled, "Couldn't find you."

Dean shook his head and said, "Sorry, man. Should've left you a note. How 'bout you go back to bed?"

"Dean, the hunt..." Sam stumbled over the words, listing toward the wall. "I saw...we have to...find her…we should go..."

"We will. Just not right now, ok?" Dean said, gently. He tugged on Sam's arm and said, "Come on."

From where he stood, Tommy felt no confidence in Sam's ability to make the return trip down the hall. He couldn't figure out how he'd made it this far in the first place. Stepping forward, Tommy said, "How about the couch? It's closer."

Dean met his eyes and nodded. He looked as concerned as Tommy felt. He eased his brother's arm over his shoulder and said, "Come on, Sammy. Couch dead ahead."

Tommy stepped forward to help and was glad when neither of them fought him. Dean was concentrating on keeping them both upright and moving while Sam had his eyes closed again and only kept moving because Dean was telling him to put one foot in front of the other. Thankful that the couch was very close, Tommy knew he was going to need to get Arla up. Because Sam felt way too warm again.

Once they got him sitting down on the couch, Dean perched on the edge of the coffee table. He studied his brother, shaking his head as he asked, "How you doin'?"

Sam looked at him miserably, eyes glassy and unfocused. He whispered, "Why won't he answer our calls?"

Tommy frowned, wondering who Sam meant.

Dean cast him a quick glance, then returned his focus to his brother. He said, "He's just busy. Don't worry about it. How about you try to drink some water? You need to take some more Tylenol for that fever."

Leaving them sitting there, Tommy headed back to the fridge to grab another bottle of water. Fridge was empty, of course. Tommy headed out to the garage and grabbed another case of water and set it on the counter. Walking back over to the couch, he realized something had changed in the short time he'd been gone. He could see barely controlled panic in Dean's eyes. Tommy hurried over and saw that Sam's eyes were closed again, his entire body relaxed against the cushions.

"Dean?" Tommy asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"He said he was dizzy," Dean looked up at him, eyes pinched and tense, "and then he just passed out."

Tommy couldn't say he was surprised. He set the bottle of water down and quickly checked Sam's pulse and respirations. Both elevated. Again, not a surprise. He said, "It was probably the stress of walking out here."

Dean nodded slowly, fighting back another cough. Tommy handed him the bottle of water then eased Sam down on the couch. He got him settled, then looked back at Dean, "I'm going to go grab Arla so she can take a look at him."

Spitting into another tissue, Dean wiped his lips, then said, "He'll be ok. You don't have to wake her up."

Smiling, Tommy said, "Trust me, son, she isn't going to mind. Sit tight till we get back."

Dean just lowered his head to his hands, elbows resting against his knees.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! <strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**_Well...I started my new job orientation this week which is why this has been delayed. As some of you know, I'm an RN. I just started a job in the neonatal intensive care unit and I'm so excited! I've never done this type of nursing before so it's a little scary, but exciting too. _**

**_As an RN, I do try to keep the medical details as accurate as possible in my fics. I'm one of those people who critiques tv shows and movies for bad medical stuff. My family just plugs their ears and goes 'lalala' whenever something medical happens on a show because I'm coming unglued next to them about the inaccuracies lol! :) So I do a TON of research and try really hard to be medically accurate as I write. That being said,_ _I'm not a doctor, and I'm not an ER nurse so I don't guarantee I'm not making some mistakes here and there. :)_**

**_Thanks for your patience with this story. I once promised myself to never start posting a story until i had it completely finished because I never wanted to make people wait forever for chapters. Yeah, so much for that resolution lol. Anyway, I promise there is actually an end to this story (someday) and hope y'all don't get bored or annoyed with the delays along the way. _**

**_I'd seriously bake you all cookies if I could cuz you are all so wonderful with the notes and I love that you are enjoying the story! Hope this chapter is worth the wait... _**

**Special Thanks to:**

**Ollie, C1, Aidrianna, SickDeanLover, Guest, CaLlieB for the wonderful guest reviews for chapter 11! It means so much to hear from each of you and although I can't send you a PM thank you, I want to be sure you each know how much I love hearing from you! **

* * *

><p><em>1030 AM Christmas Day<br>__near the highway by the motel_

Raquel blew out a slow, calming breath through pursed lips. Pursed lip breathing was the key to regaining ones focus and center of calm, she'd once heard. _Bunch of lies!_ It didn't help at all. Staring down that the monster she was half-kneeling on, she had never in her entire life felt quite so homicidal as she did right then.

It wasn't talking. It wasn't even fighting anymore. It was just...there. Under her knee, the iron chain still around its neck, the monster wasn't doing anything. She'd spent the past half hour screaming at it, begging it, tugging on the chain, loosening the chain. Denial, anger, bargaining, she'd tried everything. It had laughed at her once, then lay completely still. Not moving, not speaking.

Nothing.

It was both infuriating and terrifying. Raquel blinked back tears and raised her head to stare around the woods again. All was silent. She was tired of holding the chain, of being bound, but mostly she was tired of being a prisoner of an evil she knew nothing about. What could she do, though? She couldn't get beyond the invisible walls of her prison; and she couldn't get the monster to talk. Even the knowledge that she'd found a way to help the two brothers escape the motel before Gethen returned didn't completely set her mind at ease.

And that just made her heart sink even lower. Because she still didn't know when Gethen was going to show up. Bad enough the unnamed monster beneath her had destroyed her only friend, now she was faced with the realization that she still had a visit from an _even _greater evil awaiting her. After a year, she still couldn't shake the terror that squeezed her insides until she thought she was going to throw up. Even Mallory hadn't known what Gethen was and she'd been trapped by him for so many years.

What was the point?

For a moment, her hands tightened the chain around the monster's neck. There was no way to know if strangling the thing would actually kill it. But it was worth a try. Raquel pulled on the chain harder, listening to the gasping, choking sounds the creature made as she did so. Her stomach turned and she bit her lip so hard that it should have bled. Through the chain, every jerking motion and twitch the monster made as she choked it transmitted up into her hands and left her feeling lightheaded.

_What am I doing?_ _Am I killing it? Am I actually going to kill it?_

Body trembling, the back of her throat tightened until it felt like she'd swallowed a knife, and her hands cramped around the chain as she held onto it. Shaking her head, Raquel loosened her grip on the chain and lifted her knee. Whatever this thing was, she couldn't kill it; even if throttling it with a chain actually _would _be lethal to whatever it was. She took a steadying breath, then stood up; completely removing the chain from around the monster's neck. She took a couple steps backwards and sank to the ground, back against a tree. Her heart was pounding so hard that her entire chest ached and she had to press a hand against her chest.

Shame filled her as she realized she was too weak to kill the monster.

The creature slowly rose, looking at her. Its dark eyes glittered and the thin lips tore back from teeth the color of sin. Raquel watched it, her heart too heavy to even react as the nightmarish figure stared at her. It might torture her again. The thought terrified her, but dying at the hands of an ungodly monster would be far better than _becoming_ a monster in order to kill one. Breath squeezing in and out of a throat ten sizes too small, Raquel looked at the monster, praying the end would be quick.

"Did you get bored?" The creature asked in a whisper that was neither comforting nor calming. It crawled toward her, each movement jutting and awkward. A tongue that seemed to be oozing blood leisurely slid along the monster's lips as it grinned at her.

Raquel felt a shiver creep up along her spine that left her teeth chattering and her entire body shaking as the monster came closer. She knew what kind of pain it could cause her. She also knew it couldn't do anything more than hurt her. Nevertheless, that knowledge didn't exactly make her feel any better. She shouldn't have let go of it; maybe she should have just held onto it until beyond the end of eternity. But it was too late now.

The creature grabbed the chain and leaned close enough to slide its tongue across her cheek. Although there shouldn't have been any way she would feel it, she cringed away with a whimper as the warmth of a dozen worms slithered toward her eye.

_It's all in your head, it's all in your head! _Raquel tried to reason with herself. But the unholy stench of the monster and the crawly sensation of its tongue on her face didn't help convince her. She slammed her eyes shut and curled onto her side in the dirt, desperate to get away from the monster. Mind too full of terror to even think clearly, Raquel barely noticed when the creature moved away from her. After a few seconds of silence, she forced her eyes open and immediately realized why the creature had stopped molesting her.

_Gethen._

A scream tore from her throat just before the page turned on her nightmare and a new chapter began...

* * *

><p><em>10:30 AM Christmas Day<br>__Pender home_

The longer he'd been awake, the more he realized exactly how bad his breathing was and how much effort it took to even sit still and not do anything. It was disconcerting to realize he not only didn't have a weapon on him, but that he probably couldn't have lifted one anyway.

As Tommy left the room to go wake Arla, Dean let his head rest in his hands for a few seconds, trying to come to grips with the nightmare. How had they even ended up here? They'd never in their entire lives gotten so sick. Sure, there'd been plenty of times over the years when they'd both been miserable, sometimes even at the same time. But never like this. Never to the point they wound up too ill to take care of each other. Never to the point of winding up in a hospital or in the debt of strangers.

To make it worse, they had a hunt waiting for them and he'd be lucky if he could even stand up straight again, let alone fight..._whatever _was out there behind the motel. Every instinct was screaming at him to get out there; deal with the situation like he'd been trained. But he couldn't just load up the Impala and do it this time. Because his chest hurt, he could barely breathe without coughing and Sam looked like death.

"Sammy," Dean whispered hoarsely, lifting his head enough to study his brother. He was ashen, lying there so still and quiet; the couch seeming to swallow him up. The fact Sam had gone and passed out while he'd been sitting down scared him more than he wanted to admit. Dean felt completely lost and shook his head, saying softly, "I don't know what to do, man. Give me a Wendigo or ghost over this any day."

At the sound of his voice, Sam's steady breathing changed a little. It was so subtle that Dean would have missed it if he hadn't been watching for the regular rise and fall of Sam's chest just to reassure him that he was still even breathing. But he saw it and leaned forward more, watching Sam start to fight his way back to consciousness. It didn't look like he was going to make it without a little encouragement.

"Hey," Dean started, but couldn't stop a hacking cough that left him struggling for breath again. Spitting into another tissue, he ignored the floating black spots in his vision and sudden dizziness, then reached out a frustratingly shaky hand to grab Sam's wrist. Dean cleared his throat and managed to find his voice again, "Sam, come on. Time to rejoin planet Earth."

This time he heard an almost inaudible moan and saw Sam's face tighten in pain. Dean squeezed his wrist, feeling the shivers running through his brother's body as his fever continued to climb. The sharp pains in his chest suddenly doubled as he felt a flash of panic. They were supposed to be getting better, not worse. They'd done the right thing, gone to the hospital. Accepted the hospitality of the Penders; against his better judgment. And for what? Because if he were to be completely honest with himself, he felt even worse and Sam certainly didn't seem to be improving.

Giving Sam's wrist a shake, Dean finally saw him trying to force his eyes open. It took a few attempts before he even managed to blink them open for a split second. Not exactly reassured by the slow progress his brother was making toward consciousness, Dean prompted again, "Sam?"

This time Sam managed to keep his eyes open for a whole three seconds and, for a moment, Dean was afraid that would be the end of it. But then he saw Sam mouthing his name as he made another attempt to force his eyes open. This time, he was successful and managed to focus his gaze on Dean. Despite the fatigue and obvious confusion, there was recognition in his eyes when he looked up and a tension Dean hadn't even noticed seemed to leak out of his brother at the visual contact. Sam was blinking slowly as if it required too much effort to even keep his eyes open. Dean figured that was probably the case given how washed out he looked.

"Dude, you fainted." Dean grinned once Sam was focused on him again. "Like a little girl."

Sam didn't rise to the bait; he just wrinkled his forehead and stared at Dean as if he'd been speaking in a foreign language. Dean sighed. It was no fun to pick on someone who was too sick to fight back. He watched as Sam started to fade out again. Dean shook his wrist and said a bit more loudly, "Sam!"

"Hmm?" Sam mumbled, getting his eyes open again and not looking happy about it.

"Try to stay awake, ok?" Dean said, taking a sip of water to keep from coughing. Sam was staring at him and Dean could tell that his normally sharp brother was processing so slowly that he was probably still just trying to remember his own name and hadn't even gotten around to interpreting Dean's statement. He smiled a little and said, "Sammy, you're a freaking disaster, you know that?"

Sam closed his eyes as if just listening to that sentence had wiped every last bit of strength from his body. After a few seconds, he whispered, "Where?"

"The doctor's house." Dean answered, encouraged by the fact Sam had actually managed to speak one lucid word. But when Sam looked at him again, there was nothing but confusion in his eyes. Dean sighed. There was no point in an explanation of any kind at this point so he said simply, "We're safe, ok?"

"Ok."

Dean nodded, "Glad we got that covered. How you doing?"

"Happened?" Sam asked, struggling to get a hand to cooperate. Finally getting it to move off his chest, he pressed it against his forehead and groaned.

"You're sick. Head still hurt?" Dean asked, frowning as the memory of the hunt flooded back. Sam had said he'd hit his head. How could he have forgotten? He probably should have mentioned that to the doctor a long time ago. Dean felt his stomach drop when he realized the omission of that detail might have actually made things worse. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Sammy?"

"Hmm?"

"Your head. How bad?"

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and whispered, "Bad."

Well that certainly wasn't good. Dean shook his head, breath catching and starting off another coughing spell that left his own head pounding and Sam flinching in pain. Sucking in gasping breaths, Dean looked up as he heard movement from the other end of the house. Tommy was heading down the hall past the living room. Before Dean had time to wonder where he was going, he heard Arla's voice and turned to his left as she walked toward them, a backpack in her hands.

"Good morning." She said softly with a smile. Her eyes immediately assessed him, then Sam. It was clear she wasn't happy with what she saw. "You two don't look like you feel very good."

"I'm ok." Dean said although his raspy voice probably wasn't convincing her. He pointed at Sam, realizing he had slipped back under as soon as he'd stopped trying to keep him focused. "He's a mess."

Arla nodded, but her expression told Dean that she was not through with him. She asked, "Tommy said he passed out?"

"Yeah." Dean said, looking back at Sam who wasn't stirring despite the conversation going on right next to him. Shaking his head, Dean tried to go on, "He said he was dizzy..."

"I'm sure he was." Arla said, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. Her eyebrows were raised in that knowing mother look she was so good at and she said, "And I'm going to check him out. But right now, you're worrying me more than he is."

Dean frowned. Sure, he felt lousy, but he wasn't the one barely conscious on the couch. He started to protest, but Arla cut him off before he could even begin, "You're white as a sheet and you're wheezing so loud I'm surprised Sam isn't complaining about the noise. You need a breathing treatment, which you are going to get. Right now. Clear?"

He wanted to argue with her. She probably could see the instant flash of rebellion in his eyes, but he relented before saying one word in protest; that last coughing spell had left him far too short of breath to even bother trying to argue. Tommy suddenly appeared at his side and helped pull him to his feet. As soon as he was standing, much to his embarrassment, Dean almost followed Sam's earlier example.

The world went very dark and warm and whatever Tommy and Arla were saying was distorted as if they were trying to talk to him underwater. If it hadn't been for Tommy's strong grip, he'd have been on the floor. As it was, he found himself sitting back in a recliner without knowing how exactly he got there.

By the time the buzzing in his head faded and the black slowly melted back into the background, Dean could feel the mask over his mouth and nose and hear the hum of the nebulizer machine. Several minutes must have passed, he realized with concern. Arla was kneeling next to him, stethoscope against his chest. After a few seconds, she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and Dean closed his eyes; resigned to his fate. For a minute, he just kept his eyes closed and let her do her thing.

"Tommy?" Arla asked after she finished. Dean felt her removing the cuff, but was content to keep his eyes closed for the moment.

"Temps 103.2." Tommy said. "O2 sat 89% and blood sugar 70."

Dean forced his eyes open and realized Tommy was sitting on the edge of the coffee table next to Sam. He was passing Arla some devices as she passed him the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. She said, "We need to stop that fever before it goes any higher. Check his pressure and I'll be right there."

Tommy nodded and took the stethoscope.

Arla turned back and asked, "Dean? How are you doing now? Head stop spinning?"

"Mostly." He answered; not about to tell her that he still felt overly warm and everything was a little grey around the edges.

"Mmhmm." She said, using the infrared thermometer. "Your blood pressure was pretty low. And...your temperature is up again. 102.6."

"Better than Sam's."

"But not good." Arla said, sliding the pulse oximeter on his finger. She studied him carefully, then asked, "Your breathing any better?"

Dean nodded, hating to admit the breathing treatment was actually necessary.

"Good. You've been up for awhile now," Arla said, glancing at her watch, "and Tommy said you had some toast and water earlier. How's your stomach feeling?"

"Ok." He shrugged. Now that she mentioned it, he realized he actually felt a bit queasy. It must have shown on his face because Arla's eyes narrowed as she studied him.

She said, "That doesn't look convincing. Do you think you feel up to trying some more toast? Maybe some Gatorade? I'm sure you're a bit wary to try anything, but I'd like to get something on your stomach and see how you do for a bit and then get some Tylenol and the antibiotic into you."

Dean nodded as she turned off the nebulizer machine and removed the mask.

"Arla." Tommy said, drawing their attention.

"How was his pressure?" She asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Low. 88/52. Pulse 112."

"No wonder he passed out." Arla said, sighing. She pointed a finger at Dean and said, "Stay put." Rising, she glanced at Tommy and said, "Can you get him some toast and Gatorade while I check on Sam?"

Tommy nodded, "Sure thing."

Dean watched as Arla took Tommy's place on the edge of the coffee table. Sam's eyes were closed and his arm limp across his chest again. Remembering what he'd been thinking about just before he'd started coughing and nearly passed out, Dean said, "He hit his head."

"What?" Arla turned to look at him, eyes wide, "When?"

"It was before," Dean swallowed hard, trying not to cough again, "when we were hunting the poltergeists."

Arla's eyebrows rose to her hairline, and she said, "We'll pretend you didn't just say poltergeists for the moment, ok? What happened?"

Dean frowned, trying to remember through the fog his brain was swimming in. He said, "I wasn't there. Sam said he got knocked down some steps."

"And he hit his head?" Arla glanced down at Sam, then back to Dean, "Did he lose consciousness?"

"I...I'm not sure." He said, trying to remember exactly what had happened. "We were kind of busy. He was ok by the time I got to him."

Dean wanted to kick himself. He'd been feeling so terrible by the time he'd found Sam that night that all he'd been focused on was the fact that Sam had been coherent and able to walk. They'd finished the job and gone back to the motel. And everything had gone downhill from there.

Arla nodded, taking a deep breath. She said, "I'm glad you told me. This might explain some of the confusion and how severe his headache was last night." She turned back to Sam and gently rubbed his arm, "Sam? Can you open your eyes for me?"

It took her even longer than it had taken Dean to rouse Sam a few minutes ago. Tommy had delivered the toast and Gatorade by the time Arla managed to get Sam to respond. Dean forced himself to choke down the toast while he watched her and worried about Sam. Arla was talking so softly that he could barely hear her voice, let alone make out what she was saying. He couldn't hear any of Sam's responses. Dean fought back the urge to ask what was going on and concentrated on sipping some of the Gatorade. The cool liquid felt good on his throat, but the act of chewing and swallowing was already leaving him utterly exhausted.

After a few moments, Arla smiled, resting her hand on Sam's forehead. She said softly, "I'll be right back."

Dean frowned as she rose. He asked, "How is he?"

"Sick." Arla said, walking across the room to a cardboard box. She came back with a bag of IV fluids and said, "He said he can't really remember what happened, but thinks he might have been unconscious for a few minutes. The fever, dehydration and nausea are not helping anything so I'm going to give him some more fluids until he feels up to trying to drink something."

Nodding, Dean remembered not being too happy at the hospital when she'd insisted on leaving their IV ports in place when they left. Now he was glad she hadn't listened to his complaints. Watching her work, he couldn't stop the worry that was chewing him up from the inside out and asked, "Is he going to be ok?"

Arla smiled again and nodded, "Yes. It's just going to take some time. A head injury on top of everything else is just making it a bit more of a challenge. It's no wonder his blood pressure bottomed out."

Finishing the toast while she worked, Dean set the plate aside and took the Tylenol and antibiotic tablets that Tommy handed him. Arla pulled a blanket up over Sam just as Dean started coughing again. Arla said, "Tommy, can you grab the cough syrup from the kitchen?"

"On the way." Tommy said, taking the empty plate with him.

Arla handed Dean another tissue. Attempting to crumple it up and shove it in a pocket, Arla stopped him and took the tissue. She smiled at his confused frown and said, "I'm a doctor; we like to look at all sorts of gross stuff." Glancing at the tissue, she said, "I'm guessing you weren't planning to clue me in that you were coughing up a little bit of blood, hey?"

Dean swallowed hard and shrugged, "It's not that much."

"No, it's not. But you should have told me. We need to keep an eye on it." She said, throwing the tissue away and staring him down, "You need to be completely honest with me, Dean. I can help you both get back on your feet. But only if you let me help you. Keeping me in the dark about how awful you feel isn't going to do you any good. Clear?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She leaned forward and said, "Look, you and Sam are both one very slippery step away from earning a trip back to the hospital. I know you want to get back to...whatever it is you do. But you have _got_ to get some rest and regain your strength first. If you keep pushing, keep trying to ignore what your body is telling you, you will need to be hospitalized and it's going to take you a _lot_ longer to recover."

Tommy handed her the bottle of medicine and she took it, poured some into a medicine cup and said, "For your cough."

Dean stared at her for a long moment. He asked, "This what they gave me at the ER?"

"Yes." Arla nodded, smiling. "And yes it _is_ going to knock you out again. Don't you even dare try to argue with me about taking it."

Clamping his mouth shut, Dean bit back his protest. Arla went on, "Tommy's going to keep looking into whatever it is that you two were discussing earlier. As soon as he's able to take some Tylenol, Sam's going to get some rest. And you need to take that medicine, let it knock you out, and sleep. No reason to argue. Unless you like the idea of winding up back at the hospital, because I can certainly arrange that."

Dean sighed. He knew she was right. Reaching out a hand, he took the medicine without a word. Arla nodded, set the cup aside and gave his hand a quick squeeze. She said, "Thank you. Now, close your eyes, get some rest and just let us know if you need something."

He felt his eyes lowering of their own volition. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he glanced over at Sam, then back at Arla and said, "If he needs me…"

"If he needs you, I'll let you know." Arla said, "But if I can deal with what he needs I will. You need to give yourself permission to take a break from taking care of Sam."

Dean looked back at Sam and knew it was going to be impossible to ever give himself that permission. A lifetime habit was hard to break. Arla touched his arm again and he could see understanding in her eyes when she looked at him.

She whispered, "Just for a couple hours, Dean. Ok? I'll take care of him for you. I promise."

Eyes burning with sudden moisture, Dean nodded. He was so sick and tired and miserable that when he squeezed his eyes closed and a tear rolled down his cheek, he didn't even care.


	13. Chapter 13

**I'm back! :) So I have to tell y'all...I'm a serious night owl and I'm orienting to day shift right now. The great news is I love my job...the not so great news is that early mornings are killing me! :) This past week was exhausting as I tried valiantly to adapt to days instead of nights. I can't wait to get off orientation and on to my beloved night shifts so I can get back to my normal schedule...late nights and sleeping in! :) This chapter took forever because I was just too beat when I got home each night last week to really concentrate on writing. **

**BUT! I finally got it done! Big thanks and shout out to Laura's-eyes who has been awesome at checking this out along the way and making sure it all sounded good while I tried to get it just right. Thanks, Laura! :) **

**Also, thank you to C1, Aidrianna, and my Guest reviewer from ch12 for your awesome notes! **

**Without further ado...Chapter 13! **

* * *

><p><em>near the motel<em>

Gethen.

Raquel's scream ended abruptly in a hoarse gurgle of terror. Because there wasn't enough air in her lungs to make any other kind of sound. All the air in the world seemed to have been sucked away when she saw him. Gethen. The man? Monster? The _thing_ that had eaten her husband in front of her one year ago. He took a step closer to her, tilting his head as he peered at her.

"Raquel? It was Raquel, right?"

She nodded without hesitation. She had no choice. She'd seen him only one time, yet that had been enough to teach her you answered his questions immediately and spoke when spoken to. Something about seeing your husband's blood dripping from a monster's mouth was a good incentive for a healthy dose of respect; begrudging as it might be. Raquel forced herself to suck in a breath as she stared up at him. She remained curled on her side in the dirt because she was too terrified to even consider moving.

He smiled, showing off all his perfect white teeth, and said, "I'm sorry it has been so long, Raquel."

Gethen was tall and lean and desperately handsome.

Raquel shuddered, remembering how he had ripped the flesh off of Peter's body with that same smile on his handsome face. His smile didn't waver as he motioned her to sit up and she did, entire body quivering. Her back pressed into the bark of the tree and Raquel hunched into herself, as if that would protect her. She spared a fleeting glance at the other monster and saw that it was standing just off to the side; head hung low. Shame? Fear? She couldn't tell.

"You have questions." Gethen's voice sounded just like the third marriage counselor she and Peter had visited; a thin veneer of false kindness shellacked on top of an ice cube.

Gethen was still smiling at her, showing off all those perfect teeth. All those teeth except _one._ Raquel couldn't help that her gaze was drawn to the empty spot in his mouth. She hadn't noticed it last year; most likely because she'd been too freaked out that her husband was being eaten. Or maybe it hadn't been there last year. She had no idea. The blank space seemed so out of place given his disturbing good looks. Gethen's eyes were completely devoid of emotion, of anything.

But he smiled and cajoled her, "Raquel, why are you so quiet? There's no reason to be afraid."

_You killed my husband, _was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't force anything out through the congealed thickness in her throat.

Gethen shook his head, then his gaze moved from her to the creature. He narrowed his eyes and his voice lost all pretense of humanity as Gethen asked, "You destroyed Mallory?"

The monster kept its eyes averted and remained silent. Gethen took a step closer, raising a hand and flinging the monster against another tree. Raquel gasped; Gethen had never even _touched _the creature! How was that possible? It sent new ripples of terror through her system as she came to the realization that not only was Gethen incredibly powerful, but he was also _supernaturally_ powerful. How could she ever hope to stand a chance against him? Despite her fear, she couldn't help but watch the scene before her unfold.

"You really should have paid more attention to your duties, Alexander," Gethen said, tilting his head, "rather than trying to pretend you were in charge."

The creature's face contorted as he replied, "_You _left me in charge! You told me to…"

"I told you to do _your_ job," Gethen stepped closer, tightening his raised hand into a fist. Alexander coughed weakly and struggled against an invisible force as Raquel slid just a bit further away, "not mine."

Gethen's voice dropped to a gentle tone that could have calmed a screaming baby but only made Raquel feel like her skin was peeling off. He said, "You do not belong here, Alexander. And you certainly had no right to destroy Mallory. She was my favorite. The best of all of you."

Alexander's empty eyes filled with hatred and, despite the invisible force around his neck, spat, "She was weak. A fool. She corrupted that one." His bonelike finger accused Raquel and he said, "They were not doing their jobs."

"Which is really my business, isn't it?" Gethen shook his head slowly. He sighed heavily, his expression one of long-suffering patience, "I feel sometimes as though I am dealing with stubborn, badly behaved children."

The obscenities that Alexander spouted at Gethen would have made Raquel cringe and blush on a good day. Today, she just slid yet another inch backwards, wishing she had the willpower, the courage, to get up and run. She watched as Gethen ignored the creature's outburst and simply stepped closer. With each step forward Gethen took, Raquel's heart rate increased until she was sure it would explode out her chest. Alexander just continued ranting. He ranted right up to the moment that Gethen reached out tender fingers and scooped Alexander's left eye out.

_Then_ he screamed.

Raquel balled up her hands in fists against her mouth to stop her own scream as Gethen stroked his nails down Alexander's chest, leaving raw gashes behind. There was no blood and somehow that made it all the more disturbing. Alexander continued to fight and scream for another few seconds until Gethen smiled cruelly.

"_Fod yn dawel_." Gethen said in his baby calming voice.

Raquel had no idea what that meant, but Alexander immediately fell completely silent, his remaining eye showing his confusion and unrelenting fury. He couldn't make a sound though, not even when Gethen slashed a fingernail down his throat. Raquel felt like the tree was vibrating, but it was just her entire body shaking uncontrollably against it. She saw the peaceful smile on Gethen's evil face as he drew out a long slim knife and held it in front of Alexander.

Turning as quietly as she could, Raquel pushed herself to her feet unsteadily. For a split second she held still, held her breath, too afraid to move, but then she heard what sounded like a knife thudding into a watermelon and she was too afraid _not _to move.

Raquel ran. Blindly, unsteadily, without any idea where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there. But running was better than watching Gethen torturing the creature that had not long ago been torturing her.

Raquel ran until she saw the motel. The chain binding her wrists together clinked musically as she stumbled to a stop in the middle of the parking lot. The parking lot where Peter had died.

She whimpered, too distraught to even cry, as she saw Gethen standing about ten feet away. Her leg muscles cramped and she almost fell to her knees at the sight of him. He shook his head and held out his hands in a mockery of a calming gesture.

"Raquel, my dear." His lips parted in a wide smile, showing off his teeth, save one, and turning her stomach. Gethen glanced around, then down at the pavement, motioning at the cold asphalt. He smiled and asked, "Is this it? Am I in the right place, Raquel? I can't quite remember."

Her breath froze mid-inhalation as a fiery burning climbed in her throat. Gethen motioned around and sidestepped to his left a bit, still grinning. He knelt on the pavement, lowered a finger and ran it across the pavement, then lifted it to his lips. Raquel felt every muscle in her body tighten to the breaking point as Gethen licked his finger, eyes closing. He pulled his finger out of his mouth slowly and looked up at her with a dreamy expression.

"Ah yes. This is it. Right here." He patted the ground, then rose, "I can still taste him. Your husband. Peter wasn't it?"

There were no words. Nothing she could say, no word in any language on Earth could have given her the necessary power to convey her hatred. Her mouth worked slowly, no sounds coming out and she had to put her hands against her stomach because it hurt so badly that she could barely stand upright.

Gethen walked closer until she could smell the death on him and feel his cold hand on the back of her neck, pulling her towards him. It took everything she had to drag her eyes away from his teeth and that empty socket and up to his eyes. Eyes that were bright blue and hypnotic. Raquel frowned, feeling something strange flooding her system, dulling the fear. All she could do was stare into the blue eyes and vaguely listen as he spoke.

"Raquel, it's time we got to know each other a little better." Gethen said, gently running a hand down her arm. "When I was here before and chose you, I'm afraid my time was short. It has taken me much longer to return than I would have liked. I'm sorry you had to wait so long. Would you like to learn what I would have you do for me?"

"Yes." The word came out of her mouth without Raquel even meaning to have spoken up. Even though the fear was dulled and strangely distant, she knew somehow that she shouldn't want to listen to him.

But she couldn't fight back.

* * *

><p><em>1120 AM Christmas Day<br>__Pender home_

Arla pulled her sweater on and headed for the coffee pot. After getting Dean settled earlier, she'd medicated Sam for the nausea and allowed herself a quick breakfast break followed by an even quicker shower. She poured herself a cup of coffee as Tommy came into the kitchen. He held out his own cup and she filled it, asking softly, "How are they doing?"

"About the same."

"Did Dean wake up?"

Tommy nodded, leaning back against the counter, "Once. Sam called out for him." He smiled, "Dean woke up enough to tell Sam to go back to sleep and that was it."

Arla couldn't help but laugh, "_You_ don't even wake up when I call you."

"That's because I'm not the morning person you are, Arla."

"Mmhm." Arla narrowed her eyes at him and sipped her coffee. She glanced at her watch and said, "Well, I'm glad to hear Dean's been sleeping, even if it hasn't even been very long. They both need all the rest they can get. How's Sam?"

"In pain. Miserable. Fever's still hovering around 103 and he's drifting in and out." Tommy rubbed his forehead, adding, "Blood pressure's a little better with the fluids, though."

"Well, at least that's something. I'll take whatever I can get." Arla set her cup down and hoped she'd get the chance to finish it at some point. She asked, "Did Sam drink anything?"

"He's had a few sips of Gatorade and done well with that."

"Ok. I'll see if he can take a little more and then give him the pills. I don't think he's up to even trying toast yet." Arla said, looking at the neat line of pill bottles Tommy had arranged on the counter earlier. She found the correct bottle of antibiotics and looked up, "If he can't keep the pills down, though, we're going to be heading back to the ER."

"I was starting to think along those lines myself," Tommy said somberly, "He's not really fighting. He's too worn out."

Arla sighed, "I know. And that's got me worried. Especially now that I know he's got a concussion on top of everything else. His pupil responses were ok and he's been able to answer my questions appropriately. With a bit of prompting, sure, but he gets there eventually." She smiled slightly then added, "That's the only reason we aren't _already _back in the ER."

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at her and said, "Dean sounds bad enough himself that I'm not convinced Walker shouldn't have just admitted him in the first place."

"He did seem to take a bit of a turn for the worse," Arla agreed, "but that has more to do with the fact Dean doesn't want to accept his limits than anything else. I got through to him enough that he took the cough syrup, so I'm calling it a win. I'm just hoping he's going to behave himself when he wakes up…"

Tommy rolled his eyes, "Good luck with that, honey."

Arla took a deep breath, "I know." She watched Tommy head back to the dining room table and followed, asking, "What have you been up to?"

"Research." He said simply, sitting down in front of his laptop. "I was going to finish unloading the car but decided it would be better if I didn't make too much noise."

"Good choice. Do I want to know what exactly you're researching?" She wrinkled her nose seeing the words _Supernatural Events Encyclopedia_ listed on one of his many open tabs.

Tommy shook his head, "I'm thinking not."

"You're looking into that girl… the one who went up in flames?"

"Already found her. Now I'm trying to figure out who the other girl was." He frowned at the screen, "The one who stopped us at the highway."

Arla kept her voice soft as she said, "Maybe we should go back and look for her, Tommy. She looked like she'd been injured…"

Tommy said, "Arla, she might have been dead."

"What?"

"That girl, Mallory, she was murdered years ago." He explained, expression grim. "She was a ghost. And I'm starting to think maybe Raquel was a ghost too."

Arla was warm in her sweater but felt a shiver run down her spine. She stared at Tommy and realized he was utterly serious. Glancing at the computer, then back at her husband, she asked, "Ghosts?"

"I know." Tommy nodded, "But I think, given what we saw last night, that it's a possibility. Look, go take care of Sam and then I'll catch you up on what Dean and I were discussing while you were asleep earlier."

"I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"No."

Arla smiled shakily at his very firm _no_ and said, "Great. Ok well...I'm going to need more coffee when I get back here."

"Irish?" Tommy grinned.

"Oh please yes." She patted him on the shoulder, then tried to brush his ever wayward hair back down. Giving him a kiss, Arla said, "Either that or you better make some of your Egg Nog. Extra bourbon."

Tommy laughed and turned back to his laptop. Arla took a deep breath, then headed back to the living room. She took a quick peek at Dean, found him sleeping soundly and not showing any signs of difficulty breathing. Adjusting the blanket over him, she headed back over to the coffee table and sat down across from Sam. Arla wasn't surprised to find him shivering and huddled under the blanket. He was drenched in sweat and, except for the flush of fever, unnaturally pale. She laid the back of her hand across his forehead, hating the heat she felt, and he stirred under her touch.

"Sam?" She spoke softly, hand against his cheek. There was no way he'd been resting well given the fever. It took a few seconds, but he finally managed to open his eyes and meet hers. Arla smiled and asked, "Ready for twenty questions?"

He narrowed his eyes in deep thought, then whispered, "Yeah."

"Ok. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"What's my name?" That one took a little longer, but he got it right first try and she nodded, "Good job. Do you remember where you are?"

"Arizona."

It was his standard answer and she wasn't going to quibble about the non-specificity of that one. The fact he was even coherent enough to remember that much made her happy. Arla said, "Right. Do you remember why I keep asking you all these questions?"

He struggled to think past the pain and fever and finally asked, "Hit my head?"

Technically it was a question, not an answer, but she wasn't going to deduct any points for that either. Arla smiled again and kept her voice soft, "That's right. I need you to take your antibiotic and some Tylenol. It will help with the fever and your headache."

Arla let him have a full minute to process that because she could tell she was already starting to lose him. He took a shaky breath and nodded just once. As she reached for the bottle of Gatorade, though, she saw him starting to look around and try to push himself up a little higher on the couch. Once Sam caught sight of his brother, he stilled and stared at him; Arla could see the fear in his eyes.

"He's just sleeping, Sam." Arla said quickly, "He's really ok. Just worn out. Like you are."

Sam finally looked at her and she could tell he wasn't exactly convinced. She squeezed his arm and lowered her voice, "Dean's sleeping well and that's exactly what he needs to do to feel better. I'm keeping a close eye on him."

He sank back into the couch more because he was too weak to do anything else than because he believed her. Arla watched Sam squeeze his eyes closed, then reach up and press his hand against the side of his head. Knowing how bad his head was hurting, Arla hated to disturb him, but knew he wasn't going to stand a chance of feeling better without the medications.

"Sam?" She whispered, "I need you to try to drink a little more and take the pills."

Swallowing hard, he lowered his hand and met her eyes. He again tried to push himself up and she quickly grabbed another pillow off the armchair beside her and put it behind his head. Getting him settled, she waited until it seemed like his head had stopped spinning, then gave him a sip of the Gatorade. Setting the bottle down, she ran a hand through his sweaty hair and asked, "Sam, is there someone I could call for you boys? Parents, friends?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Family? Anyone?"

"It's just him and me." Sam said, forcing a shaky smile, "Thank you for helping us. I didn't know what we were going to do..."

His voice trailed off and Arla nodded quickly, blinking back tears. Even if she still didn't know the whole story, she knew enough. She asked, "Do you think you can swallow the pills?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Arla grabbed the pills and helped him take them. Once he settled back against the pillows, she said, "Now I want you to try to sleep and let the medicine work."

"Ok." Sam whispered, but his gaze was already back on Dean and he asked, "Is he going to be alright?"

"Yes."

Sam immediately looked at her and, despite the fever and concussion, Arla could tell he was trying to decide if he could trust her. He sounded lost and very young when he whispered, "Promise."

"I promise." Arla squeezed his hand and leaned closer. "Sam, if I thought he needed to be in the hospital, he would be. Right now you both just need to stop worrying about each other long enough to get some sleep and start healing. I'm going to keep an eye on him for you, ok? All you need to do is rest."

He whispered another thanks, then closed his eyes.

It broke her heart. Arla blew out a slow breath and adjusted the blanket, leaving her hand on his chest, feeling each unsteady breath he took. It was none of her business, none whatsoever, but she couldn't help it. She wanted to know what on Earth could leave a couple of kids, alright _young men_, she corrected herself, they just seemed so young to her; what could leave them so alone. So alone in the world that they had no one to call when they were sick and miserable. With an arsenal of weapons in an abandoned motel on Christmas Eve. It made no sense...

"It's none of your business, Arla Pender." She said to herself. And it wasn't. Not at all. Maybe she'd never know the whole story. Touching Sam's cheek, she whispered, "But I'm going to take care of you both and get you back on your feet. Because it's what your mother would do if she were here."

* * *

><p><em>motel<em>

"To make a long, complicated and dark story a bit less painful to listen to," Gethen said, amusement in his blue eyes, "I'll give it to you very simply."

They were sitting across from one another on the lone picnic table on the motel grounds. Gethen's cold fingertips brushed against her wrists as he unlocked the cuffs and removed the chain. Raquel still felt dazed and oddly relaxed as she studied him. The utter terror was still there, and the fact that she was relaxed and not exhibiting any of the fear that pulsed through her veins made it even more terrifying. He set the chain aside and released her wrists. She should have pulled her hands away, should have recoiled from him, should have run. But she didn't. Hands left limp on the table, she waited. Gethen smiled.

"Raquel, do you want to hear my simple story?" He asked as casually. Like they were old friends catching up after a year apart.

Nodding, Raquel found herself unable to stop from saying, "Tell me."

Gethen's toothy grin widened and he said, "I hoped you would want to hear my story. I know you have many questions. Let me start at the beginning. Many, many years ago I had a friend and business partner. We traveled this region selling remedies and curios to the scattered ranchers and townspeople. One day, I discovered true power and my remedies actually began to bring healing. No matter how he tried, Alexander was unable to replicate my methods."

"Alexander?" Raquel couldn't believe she had actually spoken the name aloud. But Gethen didn't seem to care that she had interrupted him.

He nodded, "Alexander Turpleman. You met him. Of course, he wasn't always as he is now. But before we get to that, let me continue. Alexander became insanely jealous of my abilities and searched for a way to steal my power."

Raquel watched him run a hand across his jaw, his eyes darkening as he continued, "He tried everything until he finally found a medicine man from a local tribe who helped him curse me." Gethen's hand went back to his jaw and he said, "Alexander used black magic to curse me to this state. Immortal. Trapped between worlds and…"

"You ate my husband." Raquel said, shaking herself out of her trance. Gethen still looked merely amused by her comments rather than becoming angry. She pulled her arms back and wrapped them around herself as she whispered, "Why did you kill Peter? We were lost, tired, just needed a place to sleep. Why would you _eat _him?"

Gethen's blue eyes softened and his soothing voice was back as he said, "I'm sorry. It's this curse. I...I can't contain it. The curse, it did something to me. Whatever Alexander did to me caused me to...change. I've tried everything to keep myself from eating, to fight the hunger. I've even tried to kill myself. Several times."

Raquel gasped and shrank back a bit further. Gethen's handsome face contorted in pain as he went on, "I don't know what I am, Raquel. And I don't know how to stop myself. How to destroy myself. All those years ago, when Alexander first did this to me...Raquel, he was my first victim."

"_You_ killed your friend?"

"Yes. I devoured him." His eyes were bright and full of pain. "I couldn't stop myself. I ripped him to shreds."

"But he…" Raquel thought back to the barely human creature and she asked, "how is he...alive?"

"He's not alive. Not really." Gethen said, lowering his gaze to his folded hands. "I brought him back when I realized that there was no way I could break the curse without him. He alone knows what he did and where my tooth is."

Raquel laughed in spite of the situation. It was so surreal, all of it, that she found herself giddy. She asked, "Your _tooth_?"

Gethen nodded, a small smile playing at his lips, "I know it's strange. But my tooth was used in the curse and without it I'll never be able to undo the curse. I'll never be free and I'll never stop killing."

"Why don't you ask Alexander where it is? Isn't that why you...brought him back to life?"

"He doesn't remember." Gethen's expression hardened. "I devoured him and when I brought him back, it wasn't...perfect. He's missing some parts. He doesn't remember anything from our past life."

For a long moment, they sat silently. The breeze was cool and gentle, the sun bright and the day so beautiful that Raquel wanted to close her eyes and pretend it was Peter sitting across from her at the table. She stared at Gethen and asked, "That's why...why me and Mallory and Alexander…"

"There are things I can't do in my state, Raquel. These limitations are part of why I could not come back until now to explain this to you." Gethen said, "I employ those with special talents who can help me in my search. Alexander is a monster, to be sure, but he serves his purpose. And Mallory was one of my greatest allies. She tried everything she could to help me."

He leaned forward, eyes staring into her soul. Raquel felt cold. Gethen said, "Will you help free me, Raquel? Help release me from this nightmare?"

Raquel could see nothing but pain and sorrow in those hypnotic blue eyes. She nodded.

If she could have seen past the pain and sorrow in those hypnotic blue eyes, Raquel Alonzo would have seen a malevolent evil so profound that she would never have stopped running from it.

* * *

><p><em>1200PM Christmas Day<br>__Pender Home_

Dean didn't want to wake up. Warm and mostly comfortable, the stabbing pains in his chest were nicely dulled by whatever had been in that cough syrup. All in all, he felt good and drugged and he kind of liked it. But he could hear a soft voice nearby and when he heard Sam coughing, he couldn't ignore it. So he forced his eyes open, blinking in the dim light of the Pender's living room. They'd thoughtfully kept all the drapes closed, but there was enough light for him to see Arla sitting on the coffee table, leaning over Sam.

"He ok?" Dean asked; his voice was so ragged he wasn't sure Arla had even heard him at first.

But she nodded, eyes still on Sam. Dean studied them and wished he felt strong enough to push the blanket off and get out of the recliner. Instead, he decided catching his breath and sitting very still was a better option at the moment. He tried to breathe carefully to keep from busting out into yet another coughing spell; he could already feel one threatening.

After a few seconds of breathing very gingerly, Dean glanced to his left and reached for the bottle of Gatorade. It helped stave off the cough and he breathed a little easier, watching Arla put a cool washcloth over Sam's eyes. She rose and quietly walked over to him.

"How are you doing, Dean?" Arla asked with a smile, "You look pretty comfortable."

Dean narrowed his eyes and said, "You drugged me."

"I did." Arla's smile widened. "Feels pretty good, doesn't it?"

Begrudgingly, Dean nodded, then set the Gatorade aside and asked, "How's he doing?"

Arla sat down and said, "Not great. He took some medicine and has been pretty restless with the fever, but it's coming down."

That sounded like progress at least, Dean thought. He rubbed his chest and looked back at Arla as she asked, "Dean, who's Jess?"

Dean sighed. He wasn't surprised Arla was asking. Sam had been calling out for Jessica almost every time he closed his eyes since she'd died and the illness had only made it worse. Dean said, "She was his girlfriend."

"Was." Arla said and he could see the empathy in her expression as she glanced at Sam.

"She was murdered." Dean said, finding the words as bitter as the memories of that awful night. Just the thought made his head throb and his stomach turn.

"Sam saw it, didn't he?" Arla asked softly, "He has nightmares."

"Yeah. He...well, we both got there just after it happened." Dean swallowed hard, not wanting to be talking about this. He met Arla's gaze and said, "Nothing he could have done."

Arla nodded, tears in her eyes. She asked, "It happened recently, didn't it?"

"Beginning of November." He answered simply.

_Feels like yesterday_, Dean shook his head; the memory still so vivid. It was hard to believe it had already been a couple months since he'd gone to Stanford and picked Sam up. He'd never expected to _still _be looking for Dad. And he'd never dreamed his little brother would have to go through what their dad had gone through all those years ago. Seeing Jessica on the ceiling, feeling the heat of the fire had sent him right back to that night when Mom had died and he'd almost been too overwhelmed to think straight. But he'd seen Sam and instinct had kicked in.

Arla said softly, "I'm sorry. Really."

Dean nodded. He rubbed his eyes, finding it more difficult to keep his eyes open than he would have expected. Arla's hand was on his arm and she said, "Go back to sleep, Dean."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Arla said, "You look half asleep already. Get some more rest and I'll make some soup for a late lunch when you wake up, how's that sound?"

He shrugged, "Rather have a burger and a beer."

Arla laughed, "Let's start with soup." She tucked the blanket around him and said, "When you're feeling better, though, I'll buy you a beer. Deal?"

He smiled just a little and nodded. His eyes were already closed by the time he managed to remember he should whisper back, "Deal."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope it was worth the wait! :) This one was pretty long so hopefully that makes up for the delay. I should be a bit less lethargic this week since I've had one week to practice this awful morning business. So my goal would be to not make you wait so long for 14. Thanks for reading and sticking with the story! You guys are all awesome!<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi guys! Thanks for all the reviews to chapter 13! I promise I'll drop ya'll notes tomorrow with my personal thanks. The week goes by so quickly and I'm so exhausted by evening that I've just been too lazy to log on all week! But I read every single one and they were all super encouraging! And, L.H., wanted to be sure to send you a big thanks for your awesome notes and taking the time to go back and review older chapters! What a treat to read your notes! :)**

**Here's chapter fourteen...a bit shorter than other chapters, but hope you will enjoy nonetheless! **

* * *

><p><em>3 PM Christmas Day<br>__Home_

"Did Dad call?"

Dean opened his eyes at the sound of Sam's voice. He'd been dozing off in the quiet of the afternoon, telling himself that if he did what the doctor said, he'd be able to get back out there sooner and start doing his job. By tomorrow at the latest. Rubbing his eyes, Dean set aside the mug of soup Arla had given him and glanced over at the couch. Sam was on his side, eyes closed. As the hours had passed, he'd grown less restless and more quiet. He didn't look so fevered now, but that only left him looking pale with bruised eyes so it wasn't much of an improvement.

Wondering if he'd just imagined hearing Sam's voice, Dean cleared his throat and asked softly, "What?"

"What?" Sam immediately opened his eyes and looked at him. He seemed as confused as Dean and began trying weakly to push himself upright.

"You just asked if Dad called." Dean said, sliding forward in the recliner with the perhaps unattainable goal of getting closer to his brother. A quick assessment from this distance was telling him only one thing; that Sam was still a mess. Dean didn't want to disturb the Penders which meant he needed to get over there before Sam face-planted on the floor.

Eating the soup had taken more energy than it ever should have and he'd given in to the exhaustion for a quick nap. Now, he was finding it difficult to gather the strength to move again. He got to the edge of the recliner and paused to catch his breath. There apparently wasn't much of a need for hurry since Sam had stopped moving and appeared to be trying to catch his own breath. He was clinging to the edge of the cushion as if he were about to fall over the edge of the Grand Canyon.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, a little concerned that Sam was zoning out. "You're the one who woke me up. Don't ignore me."

It took a few seconds, but Sam finally looked over at him again. He seemed lost and confused as to why he was so confused. He asked, "We didn't kill it, did we?"

Dean sighed at the _non sequitur_ and pushed himself up to wobble over to the coffee table. Sliding aside all the medical paraphernalia Arla had organized on the table, he sat down heavily and said, "It depends on what _it_ you're talking about."

"The thing that burned that ghost's bones." Sam said as if he'd been making perfect sense all along and _Dean_ was the slow one.

"No we did not. Yet." Dean said, glancing around the room quickly. The Penders were in another part of the house video chatting with their grandkids. Grateful for the opportunity to talk to his brother privately, Dean added, "But we're gonna."

"She was afraid."

"I caught that."

"We should…"

"We should what, exactly?" Dean asked sharply. Pent up frustration began to leak out in his tone. He'd been asking himself the same question for hours now and still had no good solutions. "What are we going to do? We don't know what's out there…"

He broke off, coughing into his sleeve, and fighting back a groan as it felt like his chest was being ripped apart. One cough turned into yet another coughing spell and everything around him started to go spotty and dark. All he could do was try to breathe through the agony. He turned to reach for the tissues and almost overbalanced. One hand against the coffee table, Dean closed his eyes and waited for the black spots to go away. Finally grabbing a tissue, he could hear Sam's voice, but realized he'd missed everything he'd been saying. Spitting into the tissue, he finally refocused his attention.

"Dean?"

Turning back, Dean realized his coughing spell had legitimately scared his brother. Sam didn't get freaked out by much, but right now his expression was exactly the same as it had been one night many years ago. They'd been holed up on their own for a couple weeks and, at seventeen, Dean had been more than eager to stretch his limits and enjoy the freedom. He'd been an awesome big brother and bought Sam a pizza, a pint of ice cream, and given him possession of the tv remote. He knew his kid brother was more than likely to ignore the tv and relish the silence of the house and get ahead on his homework, but the right to have the remote had won him points in Sam's eyes that night.

Going out with a bunch of rowdies after a football game had led to drinking which had lead to fighting and he'd barely found his way back to the house they were renting. Sam had been up doing his homework even though it was several hours past his bedtime. Not that there had been anyone there to call him on it. Dean had stumbled through the door drunk and with a wide gash over his eye that had done a nice job of bleeding and making him look like he'd stepped off the set of a horror flick.

He'd been so drunk that he really hadn't even begun to feel the pain and hadn't realized how severe the injury was. He started to get a clue when Sam's excited greeting had frozen on his lips and his wide smile had disappeared as quick as the color in his face had vanished. Everything after that was pretty hazy, but Dean would never forget the fear in Sam's eyes when he'd walked in the door that night. Dean still felt bad that Sam had been the one to try to clean the cut while he'd been unconscious, to keep him from falling face first into his own vomit for the next few hours, and then put up with a big brother with the hangover from hell for the next day and a half.

Dean saw that same terror in Sam's eyes now. He glanced at the tissue, it wasn't even as much blood as earlier, but then Sam hadn't seen _earlier_. Dean knew his brother still felt like crap and wasn't firing on all cylinders so the sight of even the tiny bit of blood was more terrifying than it should have been.

He shook his head and said, "It's no big deal."

"She said you were going to be ok." Sam said almost desperately, staring at the tissue in Dean's hand. He sounded like he was ten years old again when he whispered, "You're coughing up blood."

"I _am_ ok. It's just a little. I'm hacking up my lungs, it's not exactly surprising." Dean said lightly, but his attempt at reassurance obviously was lost on Sam.

"You're not ok." Sam said, starting to push himself up on the couch again.

"Well, neither are you." Dean countered, "Stay put, will you?"

But Sam just ignored him and kept fighting to sit up. He squeezed his eyes closed and almost lost the battle. Fisting a hand in the cushion, he stubbornly continued to push past what Dean could all too easily believe was a vicious bout of dizziness. Dean glared at him for a moment, watching him struggle, then with a frustrated sigh, he finally leaned over and yanked Sam upright, shoving him against the back of the couch. Ready to tear him a new one for being stupid, Dean swallowed back his comment and annoyance. Because the last thing Sam needed right now was a lecture. He was trembling and had gone a very unhealthy shade of grey.

"Sammy?" Dean said, wishing he'd taken a sip of Gatorade. He didn't need to break out in another coughing spell right now. Sam had his head resting against the back of the couch and any fight he had was long gone. He was breathing heavily and looked completely wiped out. _Kinda like I feel, _Dean thought to himself with a sigh. He shook his head and asked, "Come on, talk to me. How's it feel to be vertical again? Got a nice head rush going on, do ya?"

"I thought you were going to die last night."

It was hard to swallow past the knot in his throat at Sam's whispered declaration. Dean stared at Sam and realized that the fear in his eyes wasn't just about right now. Everything from the past 36 hours or so was blurry, but he remembered well enough the hours of misery in that motel room feeling himself get worse and watching Sam get sicker until he had no idea how they were going to get out of the mess they'd gotten into.

He nodded, "I know."

"I didn't know what to do." Sam said, the fear still fresh in his eyes. His voice broke when he added, "You were barely breathing, man."

Normally, Dean would have brushed it all off. Made a snarky comment and been done with it. But this time he knew it wouldn't work. Because Sam had been the one to pick him up off the floor, not once but twice, and _hold_ him up so he could breathe until help had miraculously arrived. The pit of his stomach twisted thinking back to the blackness of that despairing night. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. His worst nightmare was the thought of Sam dying; of being there, holding him as he drew his last breath. They didn't have to have a sappy moment of confession for him to know Sam felt the same way. Sam looked haunted and unlikely to believe any macho tough talk.

"How about we be honest here?" Dean said after a minute; he ran a hand over his face, then rested his elbows on his knees. Voice hoarse, he went on, "I feel lousy. Like seriously lousy." No point in sugar coating, he decided, knowing he wasn't going to pull anything over on Sam. Dean said, "My chest hurts, my throat hurts and I never knew it could be this hard to breathe. But I'm not dying and I'm following the doc's orders."

Sam raised a doubtful eyebrow at that and Dean grinned, "Hey, I let the woman dope me up with that cough syrup. And I ate her homemade soup. Which was pretty good, by the way." Dean paused, gauging Sam's reaction. He didn't seem exactly reassured, but he was probably too exhausted to have much of a reaction anyway. Dean said, "There. Your daily dose of honesty from me. Don't get used to it. Your turn. And you might as well fess up and give it to me straight cuz I'm not buying anything you say unless it's that you feel like crap."

"I think I feel worse than crap." Sam whispered, blinking slowly, his breathing finally easing.

"See? That I believe." Dean smiled sympathetically. On a scale of one to ten, that confession rated about a thirteen on the Winchester scale of misery. He could all too clearly see the lines of pain on Sam's face. He asked, "How's your head?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder and said, "Pounding."

"Mmhm. Heavy metal or lite rock?"

"It was Metallica earlier." Sam confessed, closing his eyes and pressing both hands against his forehead, "We're down to _Smoke on the Water_ now."

Dean grimaced, "Guess that's an improvement. I think it's been long enough you can take some more Tylenol."

He hunted around amongst the supplies on the table, finding the medicine and a fresh bottle of water. Glancing back at his brother while he shook out the pills, Dean cursed himself for not having done a better job of checking Sam over when he'd found him after offing the poltergeist. By that point, he'd known exactly how sick he was and had concentrated only on getting them back to the motel as quick as possible.

Tapping Sam's knee, Dean said, "You should have told me how bad it was, Sammy."

"When exactly?" Sam asked, lowering his hands and letting Dean drop the pills into his shaking hand. He took the bottle of water and managed to get the pills down and take some water without splashing it all over himself. Dean grabbed it back as Sam continued, "While you were puking, or while you weren't breathing? Or maybe while _I_ was puking?"

"Alright, alright, point taken." Dean rolled his eyes and set the bottle aside, "Geeze, you don't have to be so descriptive." He studied Sam and narrowed his eyes, "You're done puking, right?"

Sam swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He said, "I sincerely hope so."

"Think you can eat?"

"No."

"Dude, you have to start eating. The doc already had to give you more IV fluids to keep you from passing out again." Dean said, wishing he was seeing more of an improvement in his brother's condition.

Sam glanced at the IV and then looked up in confusion and asked, "Does she just carry this stuff around everywhere?"

Dean shook his head, taking a quick sip of Gatorade. "Yeah, I asked her about that actually. They had a carload of donated medical supplies they'd picked up while they were at their family's place for Christmas. It's for a medical mission trip or something in January."

"They shouldn't have…"

"I already said that." Dean cut him off, reading the guilt in Sam's eyes. "And Arla said the supplies were intended for people who needed them. She told me not to worry about any of it, that it was a miracle." He rolled his eyes at that, but couldn't exactly deny it wasn't true. Dean said, "She was very persuasive and I guess she's right. I mean...if they hadn't come along when they did…"

Sam nodded slowly, then said, "They said a woman stopped them on the side of the road. Remember I told you I thought I saw someone?"

"Raquel." Dean said, "That's what she told them her name was. And, yes, I remember you saying that. I thought you were just out of your head with the fever, but I guess you really did see someone."

"Think she's a spirit too?"

"Seems likely." Dean nodded, "Tommy actually has been doing some research. He hasn't found out anything about Raquel, but he did figure out who the ghost in the motel room was. Mallory Beech. Found dead in the woods over ten years ago. She was torn to pieces."

Sam asked, "Our kind of thing?"

"Pretty sure." Dean said, then quickly gave Sam an abbreviated version of everything he and Tommy had discussed earlier in the day. Finishing up, he drank the rest of his Gatorade in order to refresh his ragged voice and frowned when he realized Sam hadn't said anything. Dean asked, "You even listening?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded slowly, eyes barely focused. "What do you think it is? Werewolf? Chupacabra?"

"Maybe. Not sure about the lunar cycles and I think this Gethen is the key." Dean said, "Remember how all of his cure-alls suddenly started working?"

"A spell? A witch?"

"Something like that. He must have been using some kind of black magic because those medicine shows were nothing but hoaxes."

Sam nodded and coughed a couple times before he whispered, "I should do some more research on him."

"I agree, but not till tomorrow, ok?" Dean said firmly. He'd been prepared for a fight and couldn't deny that Sam's silence and complete lack of disagreement with the plan had him worried. Shaking his head, he asked, "That bad, huh?"

"You look terrible."

_Countermeasures deployed_, Dean thought to himself. And that explained it. Sam wasn't interested in pushing ahead if he thought for one second that Dean wasn't up to it. Dean smiled and said, "Shut up. You're just jealous I can be this sick and still look this good."

Sam cracked a small smile at that.

"Besides," Dean continued, "it's Christmas and I think we should at least get one day off."

Sam's smile vanished and he closed his eyes. Dean tapped his knee, "Hey, stay awake. You should eat…"

"Leave me alone." Sam whispered, turning his head away.

Dean sat back in surprise at the sudden change in Sam's attitude. For a moment, he was completely stumped, but only for a moment. Because he realized that Sam and Jessica probably had made some awesome Christmas plans. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead at the thought. No wonder the topic of Christmas was a touchy one. He couldn't deny that it hadn't hurt, that it didn't _still_ hurt, that Sam had left for college and basically cut off all communication for years. The mistakes had been on both sides, of course. But he was incredibly proud of his little brother and pleased he'd found happiness with the girl of his dreams.

Only to have all of it go up in smoke.

Dean stared at Sam wishing, not for the first time, that there was some way to make it better. But there were no words of comfort he could offer that would heal the gaping wound in his brother's heart. All he could do was try to hold onto him; keep him from losing himself in the grief. The same grief that Dean had watched tear their father apart so many times over the years. Sometimes it felt like it was already too late.

Taking a careful breath, Dean braced a hand against his chest and pushed himself off the coffee table. He sat down on the couch and let his head rest against the back. Even if he couldn't say anything that would matter, he could do what he'd always done.

Be there.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed!<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

**_Hi everyone! so here's a rather long chapter to make up for the short one last time. :) This was going to be a VERY long chapter, but i decided to save some of it for the next chapter to keep it a bit more contained. So you will all be happy to know that part of Chapter 16 is already written lol! I'm hoping to have more writing time during the week this time as I'm sort of getting used to day shift. Sort of. :( _**

**_Hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

><p><em>3:45 PM Christmas Day<br>__Near motel_

"Do you understand what I require of you?" Gethen asked.

Raquel nodded, knowing that was the only correct answer. Gethen wouldn't accept anything less. She _understood_ what he wanted her to do even if she didn't fully understand his reasons and would never choose to obey him if she had any choice at all. If his speech had told her anything, though, it was that she did not have any choice.

He owned her.

"Good." Gethen smiled, motioning for her to follow him as he walked from the picnic table across the motel parking lot. "I'm glad we have reached an understanding. You seem like you will be much more useful to me than even Mallory was. I do not say that lightly. I found Mallory to be an excellent resource. Nevertheless, perhaps Alexander was right to have ended her."

Stumbling, Raquel swallowed back her protest at his callous comment.

Gethen glanced at her and said, "I expected her to have told you all of this long ago. You should have been searching all this time." He suddenly gripped her head, drawing her nearer to him as he spoke in a voice so low she almost thought he was humming. He said, "I have waited a very long time to be freed, Raquel. You want to free me, don't you?"

"Yes." She nodded quickly, trying to fight the urge to pull away from him. Raquel was certain he wouldn't appreciate that.

"Excellent." He smiled again and continued walking.

Raquel followed because she had no other choice. She wondered when he was going to leave her again and prayed it would be soon. But then his sure steps slowed as they approached the motel and her heart sank. Something was wrong. She frowned and looked at him, sensing sudden tension in his stance. Gethen headed straight for one of the rooms and Raquel's heart couldn't sink any lower.

Gethen looked in the room, then spun around and the expression in his eyes was murderous. Voice again lowering to a hum, he said, "Someone was here."

Not daring to lie, she nodded.

"Who?"

"I don't know." Raquel whispered; this time daring to lie. "They were sick. I don't know what happened to them."

He turned to go inside the room and Raquel held her breath, fearing she'd said too much; said something wrong. Why would he care who'd been staying at the motel? She felt tears burn her eyes. Gethen had said he wanted to be free; that he hadn't been in control of himself. She wanted to believe him, but right now she was finding it difficult to do so.

A moment later, Gethen walked back out and the cold dispassion of his expression was almost as terrifying as his anger. He stopped by her side and asked, "Do you know who they were?"

"No."

"Do you know where they went?"

"No." Raquel said, then found enough courage to ask, "Why is it so important? They were just drifters who needed a place to stay."

Gethen smiled, a strange knowing look on his face. He said, "They were more than drifters. They were hunters."

"Hunters?" Raquel repeated, unable to determine why that was such a big deal to the guy.

He stared at her as if he couldn't believe how stupid she was. All he said, though, was, "It isn't your concern. Do what I told you to do. Don't fail me."

And then he disappeared.

Raquel stared at the road leading away from the motel and wished she could disappear too.

* * *

><p><em>4:00 PM Christmas Day<br>__Pender Home_

Sam found himself torn between two very different emotions as he sat on the couch and stared over at the Pender's Christmas tree. On one hand, he found it easy to pretend, if just for a few moments, that it was their home. That Mom and Jess were cooking Christmas dinner in the kitchen. That Dean and he were sitting down to watch a game and Dad… Sam frowned; he'd always found it easier to make up his own version of Mom than he'd ever found it to imagine what Dad might be like if not for the hunting.

If the Mom he'd never known hadn't been murdered.

And just like that, it was over. Just like the unlit lights on the beautiful tree, it was all sad again. Because Mom and Jess were dead and Dad might be too. And they weren't sitting on the couch to enjoy a game, they were sitting there because they were sick. He glanced at Dean and couldn't help but smile briefly at the sight of his brother, head back against the couch, snoring softly. He'd appreciated his brother's silent support more than he'd ever be able to find words to express. It was very obvious that Dean had no real idea of how to help, but he was doing the best he could.

_Just like he always has._

Sam looked back at the tree wishing he could go back to pretending everything was fine again. Of course, it would be even better if he could also pretend that his head didn't feel like it was detached from his aching body. Sighing, Sam rested his elbow on the arm of the couch and pressed his hand to his head.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." Sam muttered, adding _Dean sleeps for a bit longer_ to his growing wish list. He glanced at his brother who was rubbing his eyes and clearly not going to go back to sleep. So much for that.

They'd been quiet for almost an hour. Enough time for Dean to doze off and Sam's headache to ease just a bit more. He wasn't sure where the Penders were but he hadn't been remotely interested in moving anywhere to look for them. It had felt good just to sit quietly and regroup. He'd been so dizzy and confused when he'd awakened that everything had felt out of proportion and overwhelming. Maybe the Tylenol had helped because he felt more with it than he had in a long time. Dean was shifting around next to him and coughing again. Sam still felt the lingering worry about his brother's condition, but it didn't seem quite as bad as earlier.

Lowering his hand, Sam turned and watched Dean spit into another tissue; Dean knew he was watching and was surreptitious about covering the mess up before Sam could see it. He didn't really want to know how much blood was in the tissue, but he was going to make sure he talked to the doctor about it. Dean _saying_ she knew and her _actually_ knowing were two different things. Something else Dean had said earlier came back to him suddenly and he turned to look at him in complete shock.

"You said Tommy was doing research?"

Dean raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat, then asked, "Dude, I said that like ages ago. Didn't we have an entire conversation about that? How scrambled are your eggs?"

Sam glared at him, the urgency of the situation hitting him full force. Voice low, he asked, "I thought we weren't going to involve these people?"

"Yeah and I thought Christmas in Vegas sounded like a good plan." Dean shook his head, then added, "Look, I didn't _tell_ him to do it. And they were involved the moment Raquel, whoever she is, stopped them. By the time I woke up this morning, Tommy had been researching for who knows how long."

"What do they know?" Sam asked, feeling lightheaded. They usually tried not to involve people with their kind of crazy and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about the fact that the Penders were getting so involved. "What did you tell them?"

"I gave Tommy the speech." Dean said, knowing he didn't need to elaborate on what that meant. He continued, "Tommy's a cop so he was well into his research about Mallory Beech and everything else. He was looking into spirits and paranormal websites." Shrugging, he went on, "I told him because I didn't really see another option. He was already on the right page, I just pointed out the right paragraph. Besides he's a cop and he wasn't going to just never ask about the weapons and why we were squatting in that motel. I think we can trust them."

Now it felt like the room was spinning. Sam had to close his eyes for a moment just to keep from falling off the couch. Forcing them open again, he looked at Dean and asked, "You think we can _trust them_? Who are you and what did you do with my brother?"

"Haha." Dean rolled his eyes. "Wanna tell me how you would have handled the situation differently, Mr. Smarty Pants?"

Sam didn't have a good answer so he just shook his head; remembering immediately why that kind of thing was such a stupid idea with a concussion. The room, which had been spinning, suddenly jumped over Niagara Falls and, eyes open or closed, he couldn't be sure which way was up. He felt a hand on his shoulder and, even if he wanted to brush off Dean's concern, and his hand, it felt like that hand was the only thing keeping him from spinning off into oblivion.

"Wanna lie back down?" Dean's voice was still hoarse, but very soft and gentle. "And don't shake your head this time, dummy."

Sam couldn't help but smile just a little. He turned slowly, very slowly, and could see Dean staring at him with a knowing smile. Actually, he could see _two _of his big brother and that was definitely one more than he ever wanted to have to deal with. One was enough. Blinking slowly, he tried to get one of them to go away while not letting on to the real one that he was seeing double.

Both Deans gave him a look that was a perfect mixture of worry and annoyance. They asked, "How long's that been going on?"

"What?" Sam asked, trying but probably failing at looking innocent.

"The double vision, man. I can always tell when you see two of me."

"You can?"

"Yeah, you always look doubly in awe of how awesome I am." Dean grinned, but there was no humor in his eyes.

"Hilarious." Sam muttered, letting his head rest against the back of the couch again.

"Seriously, Sammy, how bad?"

"Getting better." And he was being honest. Sam could tell Dean still wasn't completely convinced. "Not my first concussion, you know."

Dean, there was only one now, narrowed his eyes and said, "First time you've had one complicated by pneumonia."

"I'll live. We need to focus on what we're going to do next…" Sam started just as Dean broke off coughing, yet again, and he heard footsteps from another part of the house. He didn't get to finish his statement because Arla appeared in front of them, pulling up a chair from the dining room table.

"You two look a little better. How are you doing?" Arla asked, sitting down and doing that doctorly eyeball assessment thing again. Dean gave her a thumbs up even as he continued to cough. Arla narrowed her eyes at him and Sam knew that meant she wasn't done with him, but she turned her gaze to Sam. "How are you feeling, Sam?"

"Better."

"Good. How's the headache?"

Sam shrugged and said, "It's not so bad now."

"Still feeling sick to your stomach?"

"No." Sam admitted, realizing that he actually felt hungry. After the long, miserable night at the motel, he'd been pretty sure he wasn't going to eat ever again.

Arla smiled and asked, "We're finally getting ahead of your symptoms. Think you can try some soup?"

The idea of some soup sounded good and he said, "I'll try some."

Arla nodded, reaching for the thermometer. "Wonderful. I want to check your temperature and blood pressure first, then I'll warm some up for you." She glanced at Dean and asked, "You want some more, Dean?"

He took a long sip of water, then said, "Rather have that burger."

"You go a full twenty-four hours without throwing up and we'll negotiate again for that burger." Arla said, checking the thermometer.

Sam smiled at the annoyed look in Dean's eyes. Dean just ignored him and asked, "How's it look?"

"Good." Arla smiled, lowering the thermometer. She looked at Sam and said, "99.2. Lowest I've seen you yet. Step in the right direction."

"He's coughing up blood." Sam said, shooting Dean a dirty look for the elbow jab in his ribs. He returned his attention to the doctor and watched her smile as she took in Dean's annoyance.

Arla said, "I know. And, while it looks awful, at this point it isn't very much. I'm keeping an eye on it."

Sam stared at her and could see she was being honest. He felt a little better knowing the doctor was aware and glared back at Dean. Arla finished taking their vital signs and quickly returned with the soup. By the time they'd finished, Tommy had turned on a game and Sam was itching to get his hands on his laptop, or Tommy's laptop, but Arla stopped him before he could move.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I need to do some work." Sam said, not wanting to elaborate. Maybe Dean trusted the Penders, and maybe he wasn't the only one who needed his head examined. Sam barely remembered the past few days, and as grateful as he was for their hospitality, he wasn't ready to give them their junior hunter badges yet.

"I don't think so." Arla said, actually looming over him. "You don't _need_ to do anything except sit there and rest."

Sam looked over at Dean for some support, but all he got was an amused shrug. Wondering what drugs his brother was on that were making him so trusting, Sam watched as Dean returned his attention to the game. Sam wanted to fight her, but decided it could wait. If Dean was content to sit there and do his _own_ resting, then Sam couldn't complain. Because he'd never known Dean to take care of himself and, even if Arla was keeping an eye on the situation, Sam was still worried about him. So he dropped the subject.

If he were being completely honest, he was feeling like crap again and the thought of looking at a computer screen was not a pleasant one. It was getting hard enough to sit and watch the game. After Arla disappeared from his peripheral vision, Sam let his eyes close, hoping he could last a little longer.

* * *

><p><em>Woods near motel<em>

"I have a job for you." Gethen said, finally releasing Alexander from his position trapped against the tree. The monster crumpled, one hand against his face.

"Why would I do anything for you?" Alexander rasped, glaring with hatred in his remaining eye.

Gethen smiled patronizingly, "I wish you fully comprehended the fact that I _own_ you, Alexander. You think that this miserable existence you call a life is as terrible as it can get? You are so very wrong. Remember who got us into this mess."

Alexander straightened up, leaning back against the tree and spat, "You're the one who _killed _me. _You're_ the one who couldn't handle it, couldn't contain that power. Neither of us would be living this miserable existence if you'd listened to me in the first place."

"You bore me." Gethen waved a dismissive hand. "All these years and you can't let it rest."

"I can't let it rest? I _was_ at rest." Alexander shook his head, "You killed me and then you brought me back. And you still won't let me rest."

"You do as I say now," Gethen said, cold eyes watching the horizon, "and I'll let you rest."

Alexander stumbled forward, hand lowering from his mauled face. He knew better than to believe anything Gethen said, but he couldn't help but hope. Frowning, Alexander asked, "Why did you lie to Raquel?"

"I told her exactly what she needed to hear." Gethen replied, with a shrug. He looked back at Alexander and said, "She needed to be motivated. As, apparently, do you."

"And what will you motivate me with, Gethen?" Alexander straightened as best as the broken body would allow. Once, many decades ago, he had been Gethen's equal. He wished he could remember what that had felt like. "You've destroyed me over and over. And you do nothing but lie. How will you motivate me…"

"First, go get yourself a new face." Gethen said, "You're disgusting."

Alexander glared at him, but did not speak.

Gethen smiled maliciously, "And then I want you to go find whoever was staying at that motel."

"Why?" Alexander asked, completely at a loss. He could think of no reason that Gethen could care about whoever had been staying at the motel.

"They are hunters."

Alexander's remaining eye widened as Gethen disappeared from his monocular vision. His dead heart seemed to beat again. _Hunters_. Maybe, maybe Gethen _would _release him from his eternal misery if he killed the hunters. His joy at the thought melted away and he frowned. Gethen had used the word _find_, not _kill_. Pursing his rotted lips, Alexander turned toward the highway. Find. Kill. Words that could so easily be confused. He shrugged and smiled as he hurried through the woods. He'd decide when he found them whether he wanted to follow Gethen's directive or not.

* * *

><p><em>1:24 AM December 26th<br>__Pender Home_

Dean pulled a towel down from the rack and set it on the edge of the tub. With a soft groan, he leaned over and rested his arm on the towel, then lowered his head to pillow against his arm. He hurt. Every muscle in his chest ached like he'd torn them all apart. No matter how much water he drank, nothing soothed the jagged pain in his throat and his head was thumping faster than his pounding heartbeat. The Tylenol and cough medicine Arla had given him before packing him off to bed hours earlier had clearly worn off long ago. But he wasn't about to try to make his way to the kitchen to look for more. He'd barely made it this far. Pressing his left arm against his chest, he closed his eyes and sat there, crumpled on the bathroom floor, trying not to cry.

The steam from the hot shower was finally starting to help ease the tightness of his breathing at least. Dean had awakened almost twenty minutes ago, short of breath and thinking he was going to die. After a few minutes sitting on the edge of the bed struggling to breathe, he'd decided he probably needed a breathing treatment. But he'd glanced over at the other bed and found Sam relaxed and still sound asleep and he just couldn't take the chance of waking him up. So he'd struggled into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned up the hot water.

Dean muffled his cough against the towel and wished he'd thought to leave the stupid lights off. It was too bright, but he didn't feel up to getting to his feet to turn them off now. So he just pressed his eyes into the crook of his arm and tried to think of the worst mess he'd ever been in to console himself that this wasn't so bad. Of course, his mind was too tired to think straight and the only thing he could think of that was worse than this had been the night Mom had died which only made him want to cry even more. And he didn't do that. He did not cry. Nope, not at all. Not ever.

At least with his eyes buried against his sleeve, Dean couldn't honestly tell if he was crying or not so it didn't count. He'd been thinking about Mom a lot ever since Jessica's death. He'd had nightmares for years after their house had burned and Dad had explained to him why Mom hadn't come outside with them. Now he was watching Sam have the same kind of nightmares. He'd never admit it, but Sam wasn't alone. Whether Sam woke him up by screaming Jessica's name, or he'd already been awake because he'd been having his own nightmare, Dean had been running seriously low on sleep too.

Which was probably why they'd both gotten sick. They'd been on the move for two months now without a break. He just wished it hadn't happened over Christmas. Coughing again, Dean clenched his fist realizing Christmas was over, and like most years, it hadn't even felt like Christmas. Dad had tried those first few years, but it hadn't taken long for hunting to take priority over celebrating a holiday that just reminded everyone that someone was missing. The only good thing he could think of about this Christmas was the brief time when they'd been sitting around watching the game with Tommy. For a few moments, everything had been good. But the TV had been too much for Sam after awhile and he'd gone to bed, although Dean had a feeling it had been less about the headache and more about Jessica.

Sighing, he fumbled for the water bottle he'd been smart enough to remember to bring with him. Forcing his head up, he took a drink, then set the bottle on the floor next to him. Dean smiled a little as he took a quick glance around the bathroom. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a bathroom so clean. His smile immediately faded and he put his head back down to hide the tears that sprang into his eyes as he thought about all the wretched motel and apartment bathrooms he'd seen over the years. He hated the filth.

A few moments passed as he sat there uncomfortably, then he frowned. Lifting his heavy head yet again, Dean closed his eyes and listened. He'd heard something. With a groan, he reached up and turned the shower off, then sat back heavily against the tub. For a moment, he thought maybe he'd been wrong, then he heard Sam's voice.

"Sam?" He called out, voice much quieter than he'd expected. Clearing his throat, he called out again, louder, even as he started trying to push himself up. But the door opened before he'd gone anywhere, so he just gave up and sat still.

"Dean?" Sam asked, stepping inside and closing his eyes against the brightness.

"Yeah? Need something?" Dean asked, doing what he could to act like he had everything under control. He wasn't sure he could get off the floor, but if Sam needed something, he'd find a way. He frowned as Sam reached out a hand for the counter, his other arm wrapped around his chest. "Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes and looked down at him, clearly confused. He asked, "Did you fall?"

"No. Just decided the bed was too soft." Dean said, wishing Sam hadn't caught him on the floor. He also wished he felt like getting _off_ it. Trying to sidetrack his brother, he asked, "What are you doing up?"

"I was...uh," Sam stammered, frowning and swallowing hard. He looked vaguely around the room, then back at Dean, completely disoriented, "Um…where are we?"

Oh boy, this wasn't good. Dean groaned, realizing Sam was flushed with fever again. He asked, "You need the bathroom?"

Sam shook his head, "No. What are you doing? I can't remember what you said."

"I didn't say. I just needed to sit up for awhile." Dean raised his eyebrows and waited for any sign that his statement had made any sense to Sam. Obviously not, he thought after a long, silent moment. He said, "Sam, go back to bed."

_Well, crap_, Dean thought when that got him no response. He was going to have to get up because apparently Sam was too lost in the fog to even heed a direct command. Starting to pull his legs under him, Dean tried again, "If you don't need anything, go back to bed."

"I think I…" Sam broke off, closing his eyes and leaning more heavily against the counter.

"You think you what?" Dean asked, pushing himself to the edge of the tub and trying to catch his breath. He was getting _deja vu._ Hadn't they already done this? Studying his brother, he knew he needed to get on his feet quick because it didn't look like Sam was going to stay on his for very much longer.

Sam looked at him with a pained expression and whispered, "I think I remembered why I came here."

"Yeah?" Dean asked with a touch of amusement.

The amusement evaporated the very next second when Sam threw up all over the nice, clean floor. Swearing, Dean put a hand against the wall and dragged himself up. By the time he got to his brother's side, Sam was slowly sinking to his knees. Grabbing his shoulder and making sure he didn't fall, Dean frantically looked around for a trashcan. It was really too late for that sort of thing, though, he decided as Sam bent forward and the rest of what little he'd eaten splattered on the floor. Dean shook his head, tightening his grip and hoping Sam was finished. He could feel the heat through Sam's damp t-shirt as he retched.

After a minute, he stopped, still leaning forward, both hands braced on the floor. Dean kept a hand on his shoulder and one on the back of his neck. He said softly, "Thought we were done with this."

"Sorry." Sam whispered, his entire body shaking as he tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Sammy." Dean sighed. He helped Sam settle back against the cabinet when he started to move. Once he was fairly confident Sam wasn't going to throw up, Dean got to his feet, ignoring the dark spots in his vision. Grabbing a convenient hand towel, he got it wet, then knelt next to his brother. "You're burning up again."

"I'm freezing." Sam complained. "You're just hot cuz you were using all the hot water. Like a sauna in here…"

Dean snorted, "Dude, if your brain wasn't being deep fried you'd realize that I'm doing us both a great disservice by not roasting marshmallows over your head right now. We could be having a midnight snack. " He put the towel against Sam's forehead and said, "Of course, you'd just throw it up cuz you're being such a bitch about everything."

"Stop talking about food." Sam begged, closing his eyes. For a moment, they were silent, then Sam asked, "How bad do you feel?"

"I'm fine." Dean rolled his eyes, "I'm not the one who just upchucked some very good homemade soup all over the floor. To say nothing of sitting around while your face is being sponged off. Lazy, lazy lazy…"

Sam yanked the towel away and pressed it against his eyes. He muttered, "Does that make you the hot nurse?"

Dean groaned, "Shut up." He sat down across from Sam and wished he knew what to do next. Part of him wanted to turn the shower back on because it had been helping. But he also had a sick brother and a pile of puke to deal with. He asked, "How are you doing now?"

"I feel better, actually." Sam said, lowering the towel. He waved a hand to his left and said, "I'm sorry about the..."

"Whatever. It happens." Dean shrugged. "I'm more worried about how few brain cells you're going to have left after all of this. Do you remember where we are?"

Sam shook his head, "Not really." He looked around again, then said in awe, "This is a really clean bathroom."

"Except for one spot." Dean smiled, he waved a finger, "Put that behind your neck."

Sliding the towel behind his neck, Sam asked, "Where are we?"

"Arizona. Case. Poltergeists. Pneumonia." Dean didn't bother with more details because he was having a hard enough time getting those words out and he knew Sam wasn't going to remember any of it for very long anyway. He sighed, "It was the crappiest Christmas ever."

"No it wasn't."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Clearly the fever was worse than he thought. Probably time to get the doctor. He was about to say something to that effect when Sam continued.

"We were together." Sam said with a brief smile. "I didn't want to spend Christmas alone again."

"Oh come on. Alone?" Dean said, shocked at his brother's confession, yet not wanting to give in to the Christmasy emotion of the moment. "You and Jessica were probably going to do something romantic and just…"

"She was going to Europe with her family."

Dean bit his tongue. He hadn't expected that. At all. He'd been envisioning a ski trip and a romantic proposal actually. Because he knew full well that Sam had intended to propose to that girl, even if he'd never said a word about it. Dean stared at Sam and finally asked, "Why…"

"Wasn't I going?" Sam smiled sadly. "Couldn't afford it. I was scheduled to work the whole break anyway. Jess understood."

She might have and Dean was just starting to. When he'd driven to Stanford to pick Sam up last month, he hadn't even really considered the fact that his brother might have a legitimate job. He'd never said anything and Dean hadn't asked. Dean tried to think of something appropriate to say, but his priorities changed when Sam whispered his name and his eyes slid closed.

"Sam?" Dean moved forward in time to catch his brother as he started to slide over sideways. Sam's head hit his shoulder and Dean tried to remember how to breathe. It was getting harder and harder. He was also finding it difficult to hold his brother up and terrified at the heat he could feel. Uncertain if Sam was even conscious, Dean shook him and called out, "Sam! Come on, wake up."

Sam whispered something that Dean couldn't make out, but at least he was responsive. Dean didn't want to, but couldn't help but lower him to the floor. He just didn't have the strength to hold him up any longer. Sam lay there bonelessly, staring up at him with unfocused eyes, his breathing ragged. Dean felt another coughing fit rip through his chest at the same moment he felt a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>Ahh...cliffie! So who thinks it's Alexander's cold dead hand on Dean's shoulder? mwhahaha...<strong>

**PS in case you are wondering, they _are_ actually going to get better. I promise. I'm not killing them off...after all, this is only four episodes into season one. I try to be true to canon lol! **

**Thanks for reading! :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**Well lookie there, folks! I'm a day early! :D I wanted to get this done even sooner, but wound up working an extra 12 hour shift this week so just didn't have the time, but even so...it's posting on Saturday instead of what has become my usual Sunday posting so I'm calling that a mini-victory. ;) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>1:30 AM<em>  
><em>Pender home<em>

Arla had been sleeping on the couch so she could hear if there was any distress from the guest room. Somehow she just had a feeling neither of her patients would be likely to shout for help, so she had planned to keep tabs on them and had periodically checked throughout the night to make sure they were both still asleep. Now, she rolled over on the couch and listened carefully. Something had awakened her, but she couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary now. Of course, it was a bit difficult to hear anything over the heater running.

While she was pleased with the progress the boys were making, she knew that neither one was even close to being back to 100%; regardless of what they might think. At least they hadn't tried to do much yesterday. She'd been pleased when Tommy had finally sat down and turned the game on in the evening. That had distracted Dean for the remainder of the evening and allowed her to keep him quiet and still.

She'd been surprised that Sam had tried to fight her on it, though; after her tussles with Dean, she'd expected Sam would be easier to manage. But he seemed just as stubborn as his big brother. Even so, he'd relented quickly enough and when he'd dragged himself off to bed only an hour later, she'd known exactly how bad he still felt. Sitting up, Arla pulled her sweater on and decided it wouldn't hurt to take another peek.

By the time she reached the guest bedroom, she was glad her intuition had awakened her. Because she could hear Dean's panicked voice followed by a terrible coughing spell. Stepping inside the bathroom, she gasped at the sight before her and quickly leaned down to put her hand on Dean's shoulder. He looked up, eyes wide with panic and pain as he fought to breathe. Triaging the scene as best as she could in a few seconds, Arla caught Sam's eyes and he shook his head slightly, looking back at Dean.

Nodding, Arla pushed Dean back against the wall and said, "Sit back and try to take a slow breath, ok? Nice and easy...that's it…"

Coaching him until he was sucking in uneven but less frantic breaths, Arla turned her attention back to Sam and sighed as she touched his cheek. She didn't need a thermometer to know how high his fever was. It felt a bit like _deja vu_ seeing them on the floor like this and Arla regretted not having checked on them sooner.

"Arla?" Tommy's voice stopped her self-recrimination. "What do you need?"

_God bless him, he's always ready!_ Arla glanced up at him and said, "Stethoscope and the neb machine."

He moved immediately and she almost smiled at the sight of his white hair standing straight up. As usual. She turned back to see Dean trying to get to his brother. Pushing him back gently, Arla said, "I've got him, Dean. Just concentrate on breathing."

It was testament to how short of breath he was that he didn't even try to argue with her. He just nodded and sank back against the wall and closed his eyes. Arla turned to Sam and asked gently, "How are you doing?"

"I'm ok." He said immediately. "Just got really dizzy."

"Did you fall?"

"No."

He started trying to push himself up and Arla put a hand against his shoulder. _Why can't either of them just stay put? _Shaking her head, she said, "Just stay put for a minute, ok? Your head's probably still spinning."

Sam sighed then said softly, "I'm sorry about the floor."

Arla smiled. He looked mortified. She squeezed his hand and said, "Don't even worry about it, sweetie. It's not a big deal. Believe me, I'm a mom. Nothing phases me."

"Oh." He looked a bit stunned, like he wasn't sure what to do with that information, but finally gave her a shaky smile. His gaze then went back to Dean and he asked, "Is he worse?"

Arla took a quick peek at Dean just as Tommy returned with the supplies. She said, "I'm going to assess him, Sam, but I think he's ok. Just really needs a breathing treatment."

"What now?" Tommy asked, setting the supplies down next to her.

"Can you help Sam get back to bed? He doesn't need to be on the floor any longer." Arla asked, "Check his temp while I take care of Dean."

"Got it." Tommy said, reaching down to help Sam sit up.

Arla left him to it. Because her main concern was the kid in front of her who was trying his hardest to keep breathing while still acting like he had everything completely under control. Setting up the nebulizer, Arla wasn't exactly surprised that Dean was fighting to get up again. _So stubborn!_ Last thing he needed to do was exert himself with anything other than breathing.

"I'm fine…" He said, voice hoarse and pale face flushed with exertion.

"You are very far from it." Arla countered, "Now be quiet so I can listen to your lungs."

He was quiet throughout her examination which she decided was a just sign he was concentrating on breathing rather than a show of actual acquiescence. He still sounded awful, but not as bad as she'd feared. She turned on the machine and slid the mask on his face. Dean didn't fight her about it which was refreshing. Even so, it didn't take long before he had to say something.

"Can you make sure he's ok?" Tired eyes looked up at her as he asked through the mask, "He was confused again. I won't go anywhere."

"Tommy's got it covered, Dean." Arla said, realizing that in Dean's eyes, _nobody_ but him would ever have it covered. Trying to figure out what she could say to help him understand, Arla was only slightly surprised when Dean simply closed his eyes again.

Knowing he was too worn out to do anything but try to breathe, she glanced around the room and realized it felt overly warm. Seeing the shower head dripping, it wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Probably Dean hadn't wanted to disturb his brother, who obviously had been disturbed anyway. Arla dropped a towel over the messy splatter on the floor and looked up as Tommy popped his head back into the doorway.

"How is he?" She whispered, hoping Dean wouldn't even pay any attention over the sound of the neb machine. But his eyes immediately opened and looked up at Tommy.

"Settled in bed. Temp 102.7." Tommy said, then made eye contact with Dean. "He said to tell you not to be a jerk."

Arla raised an eyebrow, but couldn't help but smile when a bit more tension left Dean's posture and he cracked a small smile. She looked back at Tommy and said, "Is he still sick to his stomach?"

"No. He said he feels better after throwing up." Tommy winked, "Guess he wasn't a fan of the soup."

"Haha." Arla rolled her eyes. She'd never yet found a soup that Tommy would eat. She asked, "Could you tell if he was oriented?"

Tommy nodded, "He is. Said he couldn't remember where he was when he first woke up, but he answered all the trivia questions correctly."

"Ok, keep an eye on him," Arla said, "when this is done, we'll get Dean settled too."

"Sounds good." Tommy said, then turned and left.

Arla looked back at Dean and touched his forehead. He felt warm too, but it might just have been the steamy room. Not wanting to say anything that would strike up a conversation, she just let him sit quietly and breathe in the medicine. By the time the treatment was finished, Dean looked utterly spent, but was breathing much better.

Arla eased the mask off and said, "I'm going to check your lungs again." She was relieved to find his lungs sounded a bit clearer now. Lowering the stethoscope, she met his eyes and said, "You should have called me, Dean. We probably could have prevented this."

Shrugging, he whispered, "It's not a big deal."

"Yes it is." She countered, wishing she could figure out why he was so stubborn about everything. _Probably because he's a man, _Arla decided, thinking about her husband. Shaking her head, she said, "This isn't helping you heal."

"Didn't want to bother you…"

"Helping you two doesn't bother us," Arla said and touched his shoulder, "but this...trying to pick up your pieces when you get so sick, _this_ bothers me." She added, "You take such good care of your brother, Dean. Why won't you let me do the same for you?"

"I can take care of myself." He found the strength to shoot her a half-hearted, but still cocky grin.

"Obviously." Arla laughed at the sight of him protesting while still too weak to get himself off the bathroom floor. Dean smiled, clearly seeing her point. Arla returned his smile, thinking how much she liked the kid. He was spunky and a mystifying mixture of self-reliance and complete selflessness. She asked, "You think you're ready to get up?"

Dean closed his eyes for a minute, then took a few more slow breaths. He sized the situation up and let his head rest against the wall as he said, "Give me another minute."

"You've got it."

* * *

><p><em>at the motel<em>

It wasn't really something she'd ever considered that much. Sure, she knew it. _Kind of hard to miss, _she thought bitterly. But it had never been something she'd analyzed or picked apart. Somehow, apathetically, she'd accepted her fate. Because what choice did she have anyway?

She was a ghost.

And as far as she knew, you just didn't come back from that one.

Raquel stared up at the mold on the ceiling and sighed. She had a list of problems that was growing in urgency with each passing moment. Gethen wanted her to search for his missing tooth. _Tooth_, Raquel couldn't help a giddy snicker at the thought of an evil psychopathic monster wanting to find his missing tooth. He'd given her very clear instructions. None of which that she was following. Because she'd heard him talking to Alexander and realized instantly that he could not be trusted. Could never be trusted. Glad she'd summoned an unknown reserve of courage to follow Gethen when he left her earlier, Raquel had hidden and listened as he'd talked to Alexander.

And then she'd rushed back to the motel, terrified Gethen would have somehow sensed her presence. There was no way to hide from him so she'd just gone back to the room that she and Peter had chosen that ill-fated night so long ago. Lying on the bed, Raquel tried to puzzle through her complicated situation.

Gethen was a problem.

Alexander was a problem. Because Gethen had apparently sent him off to find Sam and Dean. Who were hunters. Raquel still had no idea the significance of that fact, but it had seemed to upset Gethen. Which made her happy. She frowned, remembering the conversations she'd eavesdropped on when the brothers had been staying at the motel.

They'd talked about poltergeists and spirits and ways to get rid of such things. That must be why Gethen was so worried. Maybe they hunted things like Gethen? Maybe they knew a way to get rid of Gethen! Hope surged in her heart, but she was still faced with seemingly insurmountable issues.

She was trapped on the property and Alexander had been sent off with the enigmatic order to get himself a new face and then find them. Raquel pressed her hands against her heart. They needed to be warned. Last she'd seen them, they had been severely ill and there was no way they would be able to fight Gethen or Alexander in their condition.

"I have to find them first." Raquel whispered to herself, pushing herself upright. "But how?"

Staring at the wall opposite the bed, she wondered if Gethen had put a spell or something on her to keep her from leaving the property. That would mean she was out of options. If, however, it was something else, maybe she still had a chance.

She lay on the bed for hours, her thoughts aimlessly spinning themselves in ever smaller circles. It was only just as the sun began to rise and light the room from beyond the broken window that Raquel had an epiphany. Something Mallory had once told her, coupled with what she'd picked up from the two brothers sparked in her mind.

"Maybe there _is_ a way out of here." Raquel thought, heart pounding with excitement. She sat up and her gaze lowered to her hands. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and pushed herself up off the bed and headed for the door.

It was time she stopped being afraid.

* * *

><p><em>08:30 AM Dec 26<br>__Pender home_

Sam held onto the edge of the sink and willed himself not to throw up. It had been just a sip of water, for crying out loud. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. He couldn't believe how exhausted he felt. Not that he'd exactly gotten any sleep last night. And taking a shower and getting dressed this morning had taken more out of him than he had to give.

Dean had been sound asleep when he'd awakened and he'd decided it was a good time to get a few things accomplished before Dean could start fussing over him. While he'd been getting the laptop hooked up to the charger, he'd discovered a pile of clean clothes Maybe they'd been there yesterday, but he hadn't noticed. It was a welcome surprise, though, because they hadn't had any time, or any money, to run laundry all week.

Finally reaching the conclusion that the best thing would be to sit down before he fell down, he opened the bathroom door and flicked the lights off. Leaning against the doorjamb, he saw that Dean was still sleeping. _Good_. If he hadn't woken him up when he'd gotten up then he might be able to get back to his bed before Dean stirred. And if that luck held, maybe he'd feel good enough to pretend he felt fine when Dean inevitably asked later.

Of course, luck had nothing to do with it. Not eating for two days had everything to do with it and Sam realized he was going to pass out if he didn't sit down. Right now. So he did. On the closest available surface; the edge of Dean's bed. He sincerely hoped he wasn't going to disturb him. Because he just really didn't feel up to dealing with Dean teasing him about it at the moment. The room slowly stopped spinning after a couple minutes and he was about to try to move the rest of the way. And that, of course, was when Dean woke up.

"Holy crap Sam!"

Sam turned and was amused to see the utter surprise and confusion in Dean's barely awake eyes. _Well, so much for not getting caught_. He said casually, "Hey."

"Am I dying?" Dean asked and he seemed to really be concerned.

"No." Sam answered quickly, the very thought sending a stab of fear through his chest. He frowned, maybe something was wrong. He shifted so he could look his brother over more carefully and asked, "Why would you even say that? Are you feeling worse?"

Dean shook his head and said, "I'm just trying to figure out why you're sitting there scaring the heck out of me when I wake up. Man, I was having such a good dream…"

Sam couldn't help but smile at Dean's expressive sigh and shameless grin. He saw an opportunity to get away before Dean could ask him anything else so he started to move. But Dean was more alert than he'd thought, he really should have known better; and he couldn't move because Dean had caught his arm and held him place.

"Don't go anywhere." Dean said, his grin faded. He narrowed his eyes and said, "Did you just take a shower?"

"Yeah."

"Bout time."

"Funny."

"On the other hand, maybe you should have waited." Dean said, tilting his head and doing that annoying evaluation thing he did. "You survived, but just barely. It was here or the floor, wasn't it?"

"Whatever, man. You going to sleep all day?" Sam pulled away and prayed he wouldn't fall on his face right in the middle of his show of rebellion. He stood up and turned away, hoping everything he was feeling on the inside wasn't obvious on his face.

Apparently it must have been because by the time he'd unsteadily made it around the foot of Dean's bed, he felt a hand on his arm and found himself shoved toward the other bed. And it had probably been a good thing, too, because the room had grown very dark and warm. He curled up on his side, arms around his stomach, trying to convince himself there was nothing left to throw up. By the time the buzzing noise and darkness had faded, he could see Dean sitting across from him on the edge of the other bed.

"You're an idiot. You know that?" Dean muttered, glaring at him although he looked worried.

Sam tried to glare back at him, but wasn't sure he'd accomplished it. Dean ran a hand over his face and through his hair, shaking his head. He started to say something else, but broke off coughing. Sam pressed a hand to his own head as the wracking coughs jarred his brain. Spitting into a tissue, Dean grimaced and grabbed a water bottle from the bedside table. While he was taking a sip, there was a soft knock at the open door of the room.

"Good morning." Arla said quietly. She smiled and stepped into the room when Dean waved a hand at her. "How are you two doing?"

"Better." Dean said, setting the water bottle aside and nodding like the admission had even surprised him.

And he really did look better, Sam decided. Not anywhere near normal, but a lot better than he'd looked all week. His cough still sounded awful, but he wasn't gasping for breath and he looked less pale and wasted. Sam turned his attention back to Arla and wished he hadn't been lying down when she'd walked in. Because he could already see it in her eyes. She wasn't going to believe him if he said he felt fine.

"You feel better because you finally got some sleep." Arla said to Dean, "That's what happens when you listen to the one with the medical degree and let me treat your symptoms."

Dean looked a little sheepish and nodded. Sam waited for Dean to say something smart, _hoped _he would, but he just remained silent and Sam wanted to hit him. Because without Dean talking, Arla's attention immediately turned to him. He really, _really_ wanted to push himself upright and grab his laptop and escape her scrutiny, but the undeniable fact was that he wasn't going anywhere for a few minutes at least.

She crouched down next to the bed and asked softly, "Scale of 1 to 10, how bad's the headache today?"

"Four." He answered immediately, wishing he could force a smile.

"Uh huh. Wanna try again?"

Sam really didn't. If she was smart enough to figure out he was lying, then she should be smart enough to know he didn't want to talk about it. Part of him wanted to snap at her to leave him alone, but he couldn't. Because he was incredibly grateful that she'd been taking care of Dean and he knew they wouldn't have made it without her and her husband. So he just closed his eyes and let her pick her own number.

Dean spoke up when he didn't, "He was trying to do too much all at once."

"Wonder where he would learn a habit like that?" Arla asked and Sam silently cheered. _Yeah, take that Dean. I didn't pick up all my bad habits at Stanford like you want to say._

"I can take care…."

"Dean, that would be so much more convincing if you weren't saying it to a woman who has picked you up off the floor twice now." There was amusement in Arla's voice and extreme gentleness in her hand when she put it against Sam's forehead. She said, "You don't feel feverish this morning, Sam."

He forced his eyes open and said, "I do feel better."

She smiled, "I believe you. But I don't think you really feel _that_ much better, do you?"

"It's just a headache."

"You almost fell over." Dean accused.

"Shut up."

"He almost fell over." Dean went on, his expression darkening and breaths becoming a bit harsher.

Sam glared at him, "What are you, five?"

"You're the one who's acting like a cranky baby."

"Maybe I wouldn't be if you stopped tattling on me like I'm in kindergarten." Sam snapped back. His heart was pounding and he wasn't even sure where the frustration and anger was coming from, but now that it was finding an outlet, it wasn't about to stop. Ignoring Arla who was caught in the middle and apparently uncertain whether or not to intervene, Sam said, "I'm not a kid, Dean. I can handle this. I don't need you to boss me around."

Dean cleared his throat and said irritably, "I wouldn't need to boss you around if you'd just tell her the truth. She's trying to help you…"

"Maybe I don't want her help." Sam said, hating that Arla was still in the room. Even as he spoke, he was regretting his words but, despite how much worse his head was throbbing now, he still couldn't stop. "Maybe you can pretend she's Mom, but I can't."

He'd meant it to hurt and it was obvious that it had. Dean's irritation disappeared instantly, replaced with devastation.

"Go to hell, Sam." Dean said quietly, voice brittle and deeply hurt. He got up, grabbed his gear and slammed the bathroom door behind him with much more force than had been necessary.

Sam flinched in pain with the slam of the door. For a minute, everything faded to black again as the pressure built to new levels in his head. He almost wished he'd just be able to let go of consciousness for awhile because he wanted to forget everything that had just happened. What in the world had possessed him to act like that? Dean didn't deserve it and neither did..._crap!_ He remembered Arla was still in the room.

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered, feeling her gaze. He looked up and was surprised that she didn't look offended or angry. Just sad.

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to, Sam." She said, touching his arm. There was no judgement in her eyes, just empathy. "How are you really feeling?"

He felt the burn of tears and admitted, "Awful."

"I thought so." Arla nodded, "You've been through the wringer. Between the concussion and the fever, you're really dehydrated which is only making your head hurt worse. You need to be getting more fluids, especially since I took out the IV last night. If we don't get this under control, it's going to get worse, not better. You're still sick to your stomach, aren't you?"

"A little."

"Here's what we're going to do." Arla said matter of factly, as if he hadn't basically just slapped her in the face a moment ago for her help. "Another dose of the anti-nausea medicine right now." She unwrapped the tablet and offered it to him. Once he'd taken it she added, "We'll give it a few minutes to settle then I want you to try to drink a bottle of water and try some crackers. You need to take the antibiotic and some Tylenol as soon as you feel up to it. Ok?"

"Yeah." He whispered, hating himself even more for his outburst. She was being so nice and he'd had no reason to act like he had.

"Sam, you need to give yourself a break." Arla said, as if reading his thoughts. She squeezed his arm and said, "Have you had a concussion before?"

He almost laughed, "A few."

Arla nodded, "Well, you should know that it takes time to get over one. And there are a lot of symptoms _other_ than just a headache. You haven't been able to get very much quality sleep and that's only making everything else worse. Confusion, irritability, dizziness and problems with concentration are all common. And I think you're probably experiencing all of the above."

Sam shrugged. _Neither confirm nor deny._ He still felt like he needed to apologize to her, "I shouldn't have said what I said. I don't even know why…"

"I know." Arla said. "And so does Dean. It'll be ok, Sam."

He wasn't so sure and scrubbed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the tears before they fell. Sam whispered, "He really misses her."

Arla brushed his still damp hair back from his face and asked, "You do too."

Sam stared at her for a long moment, then closed his eyes and said, "You can't miss what you can't remember."

* * *

><p>Arla slowly walked down the hall, feeling a heavy weight on her heart. She'd sat with Sam silently until he'd taken the antibiotic and Tylenol. He hadn't said anything more and she knew that part of it was he still felt bad about what he'd said to Dean and part of it was his head just hurt too much. When he'd buried his face in the pillow and eventually fallen asleep, Arla had to force herself to leave him alone. Because he needed it. Dean was still in the shower and they both needed some space.<p>

The little scene she'd witnessed earlier had told her another piece of the story of those two boys. She honestly wasn't terribly worried about their squabble. They were brothers and heaven knew siblings of every sort argued and fought like cats and dogs. She'd already seen them holding each other together so she didn't doubt their bond or the fact that they would get over their hurt feelings. This was simply what happened when two highly independent boys got sick and had to depend on strangers. They started to get better and all the frustrations and fears began to manifest in tension and arguments.

"How are they now?" Tommy asked, looking up from his laptop as she walked into the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, Arla leaned against the counter and wondered how exactly she'd describe the situation. She said, "Remember when the girls had that bout of strep throat. They were so clingy and never wanted to be without the other and then..."

Tommy's eyebrows rose and he nodded knowingly, "They have a fight?"

"Just a little skirmish."

"So feeling better?"

Arla turned on the coffee and waved her hand back and forth, "Sort of. They both really, _really _want to feel better; I'll give them that." Pulling out a coffee cup, she smiled, then shook her head and looked back at Tommy, "They're trying hard, but they aren't over it by far. Dean did seem a bit better. But he slept like a rock after we got him back to bed so that did him some good. Let him be up for more than an hour, though, and he's going to wear himself out."

Tommy passed her his cup over the bar and asked, "What about Sam?"

"He's becoming my problem child." Arla sighed. "He'd just gotten back to bed after a shower when I went in there, and apparently he'd barely made it to bed without falling over. Dean started answering for him and that's where their little snit started."

"It's not easy being the little brother." Tommy nodded, reaching for a cookie from the tray on the counter. "It's great when you've got a big brother to beat up the bullies, but eventually, you want to take them out yourself."

Arla poured the coffee and agreed, "Well, that's clearly the stage of life those two are going through. And they're having mixed results navigating the transition apparently."

"Big brother doesn't want to give up his job title." Tommy said, leading the way back to the table. "I remember when I started pushing back against Erik. Took him a long time to let me be an adult."

"There's more to it than just that." Arla said, sitting down and taking a sip of coffee. "Sam's still not feeling well and it's like pulling teeth to get him to talk to me about how he's doing. And I got another piece of the puzzle that I think helps explain why he's starting to act the way he is."

"Oh?"

"Sounds like their mom is dead. And I think she died when they were quite young." Arla said softly, "Sam said he doesn't remember her."

Tommy shook his head and blew out a long breath. He asked, "And you said his girlfriend was just murdered?"

Arla nodded.

"Wow. They're really going through a lot, aren't they?"

"Yes. And I don't think either of them exactly know how to handle all of it right now." Arla said, warming her hands around her coffee mug. "Their coping mechanisms aren't holding up so well under this level of pressure."

"What are you thinking?"

"That we need to let them have a little space and sort it out themselves." Arla said firmly. "Much as I want to mother them, I think that maybe it's not what they need."

Tommy squeezed her hand and said, "Maybe it's _exactly_ what they need."

Arla smiled, "Maybe so." She took another sip of the coffee and asked, "What have you been up to out here, Sherlock?"

"Still digging and not really finding much. I'm going to leave my laptop here and if either of them need something to keep them busy, let them use it." He smiled, "Somehow I'm thinking they'll have more luck than me in searching for freaky supernatural stuff."

"What are you going to do?"

"Kevin called and wants some help with his project."

Arla raised an eyebrow, "You mean the kitchen remodel he was supposed to have done for Cathy for her Christmas present?"

"That would be the one."

"So he didn't get it done." Arla wasn't really surprised. Kevin was a bit younger than Tommy and still on the police force. He'd always been one to take on big projects and have a little trouble getting them finished. "And now you're going to help him finish it."

Tommy shook his head, "I'm just going to help get the cupboards installed. That's it. The rest is up to him. Promise."

"Mmhmm. So does this mean you're not afraid one of those two boys is going to slit my throat and steal our vast fortune and extensive jewel collection while you're gone?" Arla teased, knowing his viewpoint on the brothers had changed quite a bit since they'd first found them in the abandoned motel.

Standing up, he kissed her and took his coffee cup to the kitchen. Tommy smiled and said, "If either one of them manages to lift a butter knife, let me know."

* * *

><p>If he hadn't been feeling so hungry, he might have stayed holed up in the bathroom even longer. That was the problem with picking a bathroom as your place of refuge after a fight. You got hungry after awhile. Dean stared at the door. He'd been staring at it for several minutes now, weighing his hunger versus the lingering sting of Sam's words.<p>

He really wasn't even angry anymore. Because, logically, he knew Sam felt as bad for saying what he'd said as he felt for hearing it. Sam could certainly be a jerk sometimes, but he wasn't cruel. Dean knew he should have just backed down when Sam started arguing with him earlier because something clearly hadn't been right. But, of course, he'd pushed and, of course, Sam had shoved back. That was pretty typical. What was worrying was that he'd been so rude in front of a complete stranger, though. That wasn't like him.

Dean opened the door, knowing that ignoring the situation wasn't going to make it go away. Stepping into the bedroom, he realized he'd been spared having to deal with it for the time being at least. Because Sam was so deeply asleep that he didn't stir even when Dean tripped over his own unsteady feet and dropped his duffle bag. Catching himself with a hand out to the wall, Dean waited for a moment, but Sam never moved.

With a sigh, Dean headed for the kitchen.

* * *

><p><strong>Now, that doesn't really count as a cliffhanger, does it? really? :) <strong>

**Hope you enjoyed! As a little teaser for the next chapter... let's just say that trouble is about to find some of our friends. Things are about to get sticky... Stay tuned! Thank you, as always for taking the time to read this story!**


	17. Chapter 17

**_GUYS! It's Wednesday! What?! Can you believe it? A new chapter already! woohoo! I'm as excited as you all are! Some sleep was sacrificed in the writing of this chapter, but I'm excited I'm finally getting you guys chapters sooner so I'm not complaining. And I've got a chunk of chapter 18 written already so there's a chance that will be up on Saturday. :D _**

**_ENJOY!_**

* * *

><p><em>near motel<em>

Raquel gently pushed aside another pile of dirt. She'd been digging for almost an hour now because it had taken her several hours just to find the location. Considering how chaotic that fateful day had been, it was little wonder she couldn't quite remember where Gethen had buried their bodies. Finally, though, she felt her fingertips brush against fabric and had to pause and take a deep breath.

Because she knew that fabric.

It was Peter's favorite shirt. The one she'd bought him after they'd been hiking and he'd torn his other shirt on a tree branch. A shirt that reminded her of happier days.

Pressing her free hand against her mouth to keep herself from crying, Raquel slowly dug deeper until she could actually see the fabric. It hurt more than she had expected. Pain lanced through her that was far worse than any physical pain she could have ever endured.

"Peter." She whispered, brushing the dirt off of the fabric.

Touching the buttons, she felt the material disintegrating under her touch; and there had been precious little left of the fabric anyway. After Gethen had killed Peter and she'd died of a massive head injury from when he'd thrown her onto the pavement, Raquel had watched in a daze as the monster had piled their bodies, or what was _left_ of Peter's body, into a shallow hole and burned them. She'd been completely at a loss at the time, so stunned by what had happened that everything had been a blur. She had no one to compare notes with, but she was pretty sure that it was a common occurrence for new ghosts to experience some confusion and disorientation.

None of it made any sense. Why she was still here, trapped as a ghost, why Peter was gone forever. The tears rolled down her cheeks as she swallowed hard and searched the grave. Loneliness had weighed her down the past year and she only felt more alone now as she touched his clothes. Touched what little was left of the man she loved. It took a few minutes, but she finally felt what she was seeking and her breath caught in her throat.

Raquel lifted her hand and looked through bleary eyes at the rings.

Their wedding bands and her engagement ring sparkled in the sun and, as much as she really just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry about it, Raquel couldn't. Because she had to do whatever she could to keep Alexander and Gethen away from those brothers. So she closed her hand around the rings and turned and ran toward the road.

As she ran, she thought back to some of the things the brothers had said. Things that she hadn't completely understood and that had scared her at the time. Even though she had known she was a ghost, somehow the things they had talked about had seemed so foreign, she hadn't really applied them to her own situation. But now, all the things they had said about how spirits were tied to certain places, how spirits usually didn't leave the place of their haunting, and the rare reasons a spirit _might_, had come flooding back.

Raquel hoped she'd figured it out.

Heart pounding from the running and anticipation, Raquel found herself standing at the edge of the highway. It hadn't been that long since she'd stood there, praying for someone to stop and help her. And they had. And now they, and the people who had _needed_ the help were all in danger. Looking up and down the highway, Raquel tried to calm her pattering heart. For the first time in at least a year, she felt excitement fluttering in her stomach. If this worked….

There was only one way to find out. She held her breath and started walking; choosing to go in the direction the Pender's car had been travelling when she'd stopped them. She started praying she'd be able to get past the invisible barrier that had held her in place for so long. After a year, she knew _exactly_ where her boundaries were. Squeezing the rings until her hand cramped, Raquel walked. And walked.

And walked right past mile marker 242.

Clapping a hand over her mouth to stop the excited scream that wanted to tear from her throat, Raquel didn't stop to look back, but took off running, a wide grin on her face.

* * *

><p><em>0920 Pender home<em>

Walking into the living room, Dean saw Arla in the kitchen and knew he was going to have to face her. Even if he wanted to hold Sam solely responsible, he _had_ been the one to slam the door. And she hadn't deserved that. He took a deep breath and slowly walked toward the dining room table. It was annoying how slowly he was walking. Even though he felt a heck of a lot better this morning, his body still hurt and breathing was taking most of his effort. The only good thing he could think of was that being laid up had done wonders for his twisted ankle. Maybe it was the rest and the painkillers, but he was walking without a limp so at least he couldn't complain about that.

"Dean, are you interested in some breakfast?" Arla asked as he walked over to the table. She came around the corner of the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, dish towel in her hand, a smile on her face.

"Please." Dean hoped he didn't sound desperate. But he was _really_ hungry.

Arla studied him with practiced eyes and seemed to be satisfied. She said, "Feel up to trying something more substantial today? How about toast and some eggs?"

"Sounds good."

"Any particular way you like your eggs?"

"Surprise me." Dean grinned. He sat down when she gave him a look and pointed a finger at the chair. _Man, she's bossy_. His attention wandered from that to the open laptop on the table. Obviously Tommy had been busy even this morning. Arla caught him looking at it and spoke up.

"Tommy ran over to help a friend with a kitchen remodel. But he left the laptop for you boys to use. So help yourself." Arla said, cracking eggs into the pan. "My husband's always been a nut about research. I guess it's a cop thing. But I haven't seen him so engrossed in anything since he left the force."

Dean pulled the laptop closer and snorted, "Welcome to my world."

"You do a lot of research for your...cases?" Arla raised an eyebrow as if she wasn't quite sure what to call what they did.

"Well, I personally try to avoid it, but Sam loves burying his nose in a book. Or the internet." He shrugged, glancing at the laptop.

Staring at the open tabs, Dean considered how great it had been lately to have Sam back in the research department. And, of course, that thought just helped to sour his mood again. Because _he _was sitting in front of the laptop, doing Sam's job while he slept like nothing had even happened. Tapping a finger on the table, Dean frowned. Apparently he was still a _little _angry. But, the more he thought about it, the less angry and more worried he got. He thought back to how bad Sam had looked earlier and knew he shouldn't have antagonised him.

"Here you go." Arla's cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts. She set down a plate and a glass of water in front of him. "I'm going to grab your antibiotic too."

"Thanks." Dean looked down at the plate, appetite suddenly diminished. He forced himself to pick up the fork, but he really didn't want to.

Arla was already back in the kitchen bustling around by the time he'd even managed to take a bite. He didn't look up, but felt her eyes on him even as she did whatever she was doing. The eggs were tasteless, but at least they weren't making him sick to his stomach. Nah, he had a pain in the butt little brother for that.

"Don't force yourself to eat too much." Arla said, sitting down across from him and opening a pill bottle. She handed him the antibiotic and said, "You're feeling better, but we don't want to overdo it."

Dean nodded and took the pill.

Arla asked, "Any headache today?"

"Just my brother." Dean muttered without meaning to say it aloud. He looked up guiltily, remembering that he'd slammed the door in her presence.

"Siblings. Giving each other headaches since the beginning of time." Arla smiled knowingly. "If you think I'm in shock over what happened earlier, you're wrong. I have two daughters."

Dean returned her smile, feeling a little less tense. He said, "Yeah, sorry about earlier."

"As I told your brother, I'm not the one you need to apologize to."

_Huh._ So Sam had apologized to her? Dean wasn't really surprised, and he couldn't exactly deny that Arla wasn't right in her subtle nudge that _he_ might have something to apologize for too. He lifted a piece of toast, feeling even more guilty.

Arla seemed to pick up on his feelings and said, "It's not the first time people have said things they didn't mean in that room, and not the first time that door was slammed, Dean. Honestly, I think it was one of the most understated arguments that ever occurred in there. When the girls went at it, I could hear them screaming all the way to the back yard. And Amy had a way of slamming that door that took the pictures off the wall. You boys were really quite polite about it."

Dean looked up and saw her eyes sparkling in amusement. She leaned closer and said, "Stop worrying about it."

He nodded slowly and said, "It's probably a new record, actually. I think we made it, what? Like forty-eight hours without going at each other? Not too bad."

"Considering the stress you boys have been under, I'd say you've been doing very well." Arla said, resting her arms on the table.

Shrugging, Dean took a drink of water, then asked, "So what's your professional opinion? How's he doing?"

"He's improving." Arla said, without hesitation. "You both are, but what neither of you want to accept is that it's going to take _time_."

"We don't really have time." Dean shook his head. "In our line of work, we don't get sick days."

Arla nodded, "I can see that. But I'm telling you right now that you are officially on sick leave. And don't open your mouth unless it's to put eggs in it because I don't want to hear one word of protest from you, young man."

Dean raised his eyebrows and dutifully lifted his fork instead of saying everything he'd been planning to say.

"Tommy can help you out but neither of you need to be doing anything…"

"He needs to stay out of it." Dean couldn't help but interrupt this time. "Both of you do. You really don't have a clue what this is all about. I appreciate your help. I do. You probably, no, you _definitely_ saved our lives. And we're grateful. But there's a reason we never involve civilians. We don't want to see you get hurt."

For a moment they were silent, each considering the cards that had just been laid. Arla nodded slowly, "I hear you. You're right, this is all out of our element. I'm honestly still having a difficult time believing that you boys hunt ghosts. That you think there's a ghost or something out there in the woods eating people."

"It's probably something else actually because…" Dean started, but she rolled her eyes and cut him off.

"Whatever. I'll leave that to you. What I'm saying is that if you don't give yourselves a few days to let the antibiotics work, to let yourselves rest, you are _both_ going to wind up in the hospital or dead." She held his gaze and there wasn't a bit of levity in her eyes. "You have no endurance because you're using all your energy just to breathe and Sam hasn't even made it a full twenty-four hours without vomiting. You're barely eating, he's _not_ eating."

He didn't like hearing it all listed out like that. Not at all. It just served to remind him how much trouble they were in. And how insurmountable the task ahead of them seemed. Because, regardless of what Arla was saying, something was out there hurting people and they were the only ones who could deal with it.

Taking a deep breath, Dean said, "We'll wait as long as we can. Do what we can from here," he motioned to the laptop, "but once we have what we need, we have to go. We have to deal with whatever's out there. Before it kills someone else."

Arla sighed, "Why are you so sure it will?"

"Because these things always do. They're monsters."

"And it's your job to...kill all of them?" Arla asked softly.

"It's my responsibility." Dean said, then rephrased it when he considered the fact that he wasn't alone in it anymore, "_Our_ responsibility."

Shaking her head, she said, "That's an awful heavy burden."

Dean shrugged, "It's what we do."

Arla stared at him for a long moment and Dean could tell she was reaching the conclusion she wasn't going to win this battle. He remained silent because, although he knew the time would come when he'd have to get back in the field and deal with the threat, he still didn't exactly have a plan yet. Basically, it was a draw. After a minute, Arla relented with a sigh. She stood up and nodded.

"I'm going to check on your brother and make sure he's still sleeping." Arla said, pointing at the laptop. "As soon as you're done eating, feel free to use the laptop. But I want you comfortable on the couch or the recliner, not sitting there at the table all day."

Dean nodded as she turned and walked down the hall. Sitting somewhere more comfortable sounded great. For now, though, he pulled the laptop closer and grabbed a piece of toast. It might not exactly taste great, but Arla was right about one thing. If they didn't get their strength back, they were useless.

And he was tired of being useless.

* * *

><p><em>2 PM Pender home<em>

"Sam's still sound asleep. I don't think he's moved at all since he fell asleep."

Tommy laughed, "He'll have a stiff neck, but a long sleep is exactly what he's been needing."

"Exactly." Arla agreed, "I'm not disturbing him. If he sleeps all day, I'll be happy."

"And Dean? Giving you fits?"

Arla pulled her bedroom door closed a little bit more and sat down on the edge of the bed, switching the phone to her other ear. She said, "Oh here and there. But he's been pretty content with the laptop and something to do. He doesn't do well without something to occupy him. He ate good for breakfast and had half a sandwich for lunch, then went back to the research but fell asleep as soon as he sat back down in the recliner."

"See, I'm telling you there's something soporific about that chair, Arla." Tommy insisted.

"What's soporific about that chair is the lazy man with the fancy vocabulary who usually sits there and ignores me when I tell him what to do."

"I'm retired."

"Don't I know it." Arla smiled. "Anyway, Dean's asleep and I'm not disturbing him _either_."

Tommy said, "Good idea."

"You coming home sometime today?"

"Soon. We've got a few things to finish up and I want to swing by the motel and take another look around."

"I don't know if that's really a great idea." Arla said softly into the phone. "Dean said he doesn't want us involved."

Tommy's voice came back, although the reception broke up every now and then, "Well, we are involved. And I can't ignore this. I can't ignore the fact that we may know who killed Mallory Beech, who might have killed this Raquel…"

"And what are you going to tell them at the office?" Arla interrupted, shifting her phone and starting to fold the clothes that were piled on the bed, "That a _ghost_ killed them? That a _monster_ killed them?"

"I…" His voice trailed off, then he said, "Sorry, honey, reception went for a minute there."

Arla smiled and rolled her eyes. "Reception did not just go out for a minute there. You are such a liar, Tommy Pender. You don't know what you would say and how could you? This is...well it's the weirdest situation I can think of, actually."

"I have to say something."

"Maybe you do. But right now, nothing has happened right now to trigger any kind of investigation. Mallory was murdered years ago. We don't really know a thing about Raquel or what's out there in the woods. So there isn't anything to report…"

This time, Tommy interrupted her, "Which is why I want to go out there and…."

"Get yourself killed."

"That's never the plan." Tommy sounded amused. "Arla, I'm not talking about taking my magnifying glass out to the motel and crawling around looking for clues. I am a cop. I know how to be subtle."

Arla lowered the shirt she was folding and sighed, "I know. It's not that I doubt you, because you know I don't. But this isn't a crook hiding out with a pistol and some stolen convenience store cash. This, if those boys are right, isn't necessarily human, or even necessarily alive. When did they cover that in your training? Because I don't remember you talking about it."

"I know." Tommy said, and for a moment, the phone line crackled. He came back on right away, "I'm almost to town. Needed a few more supplies, then I'm dropping them off to Kevin."

"And coming home?" Suddenly Arla's hands were sweaty and her heart was pounding. She gripped the phone tighter and said, "You're coming home right after?"

"I'll be driving right past the motel grounds so I'm going to take a peek, from a safe distance." Tommy said, his voice showing that he knew it was not going to be a popular decision. "I promise I'm going to be careful."

Arla stared at their framed wedding picture across the room and realized the fear that came from being married to a cop just never went away. Because they couldn't help but be willing to go into harms way for the good of others. She couldn't help it when her voice broke as she said, "Thomas, be careful."

"I will. I promise, Arla. I'll call you as soon as I leave." Tommy said with sincerity. "I love you."

"I love you too, you crazy man." Arla said, waiting for him to say good bye. But the reception crackled again and he was gone. Sighing, she turned off the phone. _Stupid cell phones_.

For the next hour, Arla puttered around the house putting away all the paraphernalia they'd collected for their trip to Tommy's brother's place for Christmas. She'd been running laundry and getting a few things reorganized for the first time since they'd returned home. She thought about the wonderful time they'd had with family and friends for the holiday and felt a pang of sadness for the Winchesters. They'd been too ill to enjoy even a little of the holiday. Arla decided that, one way or another, as soon as they felt better, they were going to get a Christmas. If she could keep them from running out the door, that is.

Smiling wryly, Arla put the towels away in the linen closet and stopped by the bedroom for yet another check. Sam had finally shifted a little, although he was still sleeping. She wasn't going to take any chances of waking him up, so she had to content herself that he didn't look feverish or in pain as she stood in the doorway. Pulling the door almost closed again, Arla went back toward the kitchen.

Walking down the hall, she could hear Dean coughing again. She'd taken the laptop away earlier when he'd finally settled back in the chair and fallen asleep. He hadn't stirred since. But now, he was rubbing his eyes and reaching for the tissues she'd left next to him. His coughing spell had been brief although he still sounded congested and was spitting into a tissue as she walked into the room. He took a drink of water, then looked up at her; breathing labored.

"Hey." She said softly.

Nodding, he stared at her silently for a moment and she could see an inner conflict playing out in his eyes. Sitting down on the edge of the couch, Arla frowned and asked, "Dean? What is it?"

"I think I need a breathing treatment."

It probably took all his willpower to sum up the courage to say what he did, and if he was asking, Arla knew without a doubt that he need it. She smiled sympathetically and said, "I think you're right. You're going longer between treatments which is a good sign."

He nodded, but didn't comment. She set the machine up and watched with amusement as he started drifting back off to sleep as the treatment began. Arla was about to settle back on the couch for the duration when she heard the doorbell. Dean didn't stir, so she just rose and headed for the backdoor.

* * *

><p><em>3:00 PM Pender home<em>

Sam couldn't quite remember what day it was. Was struggling to remember what year it was and he certainly couldn't remember if it had been a bus or a train that had run him over, but he did remember one thing with terrible clarity. He remembered what he'd said to Dean. Groaning, he pushed himself up from the pillow and rested his head in his hands for a few seconds. It would have been heaven to just flop right back down against the warm pillow and escape reality for a bit longer, but he had a nagging feeling he should probably get up.

Forcing his eyes open, Sam glanced around the room, hoping something would spark his memory. Other than what he'd said to Dean, he was still foggy on the details. He shakily pushed himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, head lowered. The dizziness slowly passed and he realized how thirsty he was. A bottle of Gatorade conveniently sat on the bedside table and, although it took him much too long to fight the cap, he managed to get it opened and take a long drink. Sam lowered the bottle and rested his elbows on his knees, lowering his head again.

For the first time in a very long time, he didn't feel like it was all going to come right back up. But sitting up and taking a drink had left him so worn out that he already wanted to lie down again. Sighing, he took another drink and looked around the room. The bathroom was empty and the room deserted, door to the hallway only slightly ajar. He had no idea how long it had been, but Dean had clearly decided he had somewhere else to be. Sam's heart clenched as he thought about how shattered Dean had looked when he'd said what he'd said.

"What's the matter with you?" He muttered to himself, finishing half the bottle. All his life he'd never said anything like that. Mom was taboo. A precious, out of reach jewel that he'd never been allowed to get very near. He'd asked and Dad and Dean had _mostly_ answered his questions but, even as a kid, it hadn't taken him long to know that asking about Mom was a good way to make them sad. So he'd just stopped. They hadn't wanted to share, and he knew that part of it was that they were actually trying to protect him, but it had hurt all the same.

He'd never used her like that in an argument with Dean. Because, even if he didn't remember her, she was still an angel and he loved her. Rubbing his forehead, Sam sighed and wished he'd been able to keep his mouth shut earlier. But he hadn't and now he needed to see if Dean was ever going to speak to him again.

Setting the bottle on the table, Sam knew he needed to talk to his brother and try to fix the damage he'd done. His head felt only slightly less foggy than it had earlier, but at least the pounding had faded to a muted throb. It was the best he'd felt in days. And with that realization came the recognition that they were in the middle of a case. One they'd fallen into and dragged a couple of civilians into the middle of.

Sam knew he needed to get to his computer and looked across the room wishing it was closer. But he couldn't sit on the bed all day so he forced himself up and found that, while he was shaky, the room didn't fade to black and he wasn't so dizzy that he couldn't make it. Crossing the room felt like winning a major battle and, even if he had to hold onto the wall and close his eyes for a few seconds, he smiled at his accomplishment.

He shoved his feet into his tennis shoes, not bothering to tie them, and heard a doorbell. The sound didn't drive a spike of pain through his skull so he took a breath and reached down for his laptop as he heard footsteps going by outside the room. Leaning down was almost his undoing and he had to crouch there, resting against a dresser until the dark spots began to fade. By the time they were floating away and his blindly searching fingers had found the laptop, he heard what sounded like a bit of a commotion outside.

Still crouching down by their pile of gear, Sam frowned, looking up at the half closed door. He heard a woman's voice. Arla, he came up with her name after a moment. She sounded upset. Something was very wrong. Sam let go of the laptop and instead reached for the weapons bag. He didn't know what he needed, but he had a gut feeling he needed something. So he grabbed some salt and a knife with an iron blade. He wasn't sure the shotgun was loaded and he could hear what sounded like a tussle outside in the hallway so he wasn't wasting any more time.

Sam gripped the knife in his right hand and pushed past the brief dizziness when he stood up. Leaning against the wall, he moved toward the door, trying to get a glimpse through the crack before he walked out into whatever was going on. For all he knew, Arla could be arguing with a neighbor about who was supposed to bake the pie for the church social. Or whatever it was that normal neighbors argued about.

Once he glanced out into the hall and saw a tall man in a nice suit with his hands around Arla's upper arms, though, he didn't care if it _was_ a neighbor. Sam pushed the door open and Arla's eyes met his immediately. She tried to wrench herself free from the man, but he just smiled when he caught sight of Sam. The man pushed Arla backwards against the wall and turned toward Sam.

"Sam! He's a ghost!" Arla shouted, reaching behind her for something.

The man came at him instantly, a wide grin on his face. Sam threw salt at him and swung the knife. The salt didn't seem to bother him and he dodged away from the blade. Sam moved forward as Arla swung an umbrella from behind the man. The umbrella didn't go through him as Sam had expected and the man spun around, shoving Arla harder into the wall this time. Sam took his advantage and moved forward, stabbing the blade into his back.

Whatever the man in the suit was, he wasn't a ghost.

Sam hit something solid. The man froze and Sam yanked the blade out, ready to stab forward again because he had a feeling the blade hadn't bothered the man any more than the salt had. He was right. The guy in the suit spun around and barreled into him so quickly that Sam didn't have time to react, much less prevent himself from falling backwards and landing flat on his back between the two beds.

He felt the breath explode out of him and the room went completely black.

* * *

><p>Dean was half asleep and feeling completely relaxed and actually quite comfortable. The noisy nebulizer machine was providing a lulling background noise that made it easy for him to drift in the haze of sleep. Even if the mask was uncomfortable, after having it on his face so many times in the past few days, it barely even registered anymore. Shifting in the recliner, Dean found the perfect position and sighed in relief.<p>

And then he heard a commotion over the nebulizer.

Eyes immediately open, he sat up and frowned, listening. Arla had been on the couch a moment ago, but she wasn't in the room anymore. He heard raised voices and a thump in the hallway and he leaned forward, turning the machine off. For a few seconds, he just waited and listened. Maybe it was nothing. When he heard Arla's voice screaming Sam's name, though, he pushed himself up from the recliner and took off running across the living room, not even breaking his stride as he grabbed a poker from the fireplace on his way past. Not having a weapon on him was starting to become an issue.

He ran down the hallway, seeing no one and nothing out of the ordinary save the open back door. But he could hear a fight taking place, and as he got nearer, he realized with a sickening jump of his stomach that it was all taking place in the room he'd left Sam safely sleeping six hours earlier. What in the world had just happened?

Dean reached the bedroom door and what he saw inside made his heart skip a beat. Arla was on her knees, weakly beating at a man in a suit who was pressing her back against the bed, his hands around her neck. She looked up at Dean with a surprising mix of terror and anger in her eyes and he immediately swung the poker at the man. It hit him hard enough that the man let go of Arla and pounced toward Dean.

In the limited space of the bedroom, Dean found himself shoved against the dresser and their gear by the force of the man's assault; the poker still in his hand. But he couldn't lift it enough to get enough leverage to hit the man again. The guy in the suit was holding his arm down and pressing his knee into his chest.

The room started to spin as Dean fought as hard as he could against the guy, while also trying to suck in desperate breaths. Running down the hall and the brief fight was already depleting his reserves. The man just smiled down at him, even when Arla started smacking him against the back of the head with what looked like an umbrella. Dean appreciated her enthusiasm, but regretted that she'd gotten involved when the guy abruptly let up on him and turned around to throw Arla completely out of the room. Dean heard her tumble to the floor in the hallway and used his opportunity to push himself up breathlessly.

He desperately searched until he found a knife from the bag. The few seconds he had before the man turned around from tossing Arla had given Dean enough time to see what he'd missed a moment before. Sam was sprawled out on his back in the middle of the room, a knife lying on the floor next to his hand. He wasn't moving. The sight left Dean feeling ice cold, but he knew he had to focus on the fight if he wanted to be able to do anything to help his brother or Arla.

Stabbing the blade into the man's heart, Dean felt a cough tear through him and sank back against the dresser despite his best efforts to stay upright. The man in the suit glared at him, but merely pulled the blade out and shook his head. Dean gasped for breath and fumbled for the bag again, desperately searching for another weapon. He really wished Arla would come back with the umbrella. The guy was already wrapping his hands around Dean's neck and he had to stop looking for a weapon, and start fighting against the iron grip around his neck.

Staring up into the cold blue eyes above him, Dean was surprised to realize the guy, or whatever he was, seemed out of his element. He looked furious, but there was fear in those eyes. Fear like he was doing something he really wasn't equipped to be doing. Dean didn't have time to analyze the situation more because the room was starting to go dark as he struggled to breathe. He reached out again, desperate to find a weapon. Because he wasn't going to last much longer.

* * *

><p><strong>Ok. I know this was an awful cliffie! I admit it. I'm sorry! ;) I'm going to try hard not to keep you waiting very long. PS..anyone else super bummed about no new eppy this week? And I'm not sure i'm going to be able to adapt to SPN being on Wednesdays. This is going to be an adjustment. ;) <strong>

**Have a great day! **


End file.
